


We Could Be "A Thing"

by bethepuck



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, First Meetings, Kissing, Lust, M/M, Prompt Fill, Sex, Teasing, Touching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-19
Updated: 2016-07-30
Packaged: 2018-03-08 07:10:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 27,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3200162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bethepuck/pseuds/bethepuck
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lionel Messi transfers high schools from Bishop Stamford to Illyria Prep and receives some, at first, unwanted attention as the wealthy and popular Cristiano Ronaldo does anything to get Leo into bed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Introductions

**Author's Note:**

> Hi guys! So, this is a prompt fill: http://footballkink2.livejournal.com/10208.html?thread=6065888#t6065888  
> I'll update soon!

Leo stares at the sloping stonewalls of the dormitory building, the arching front entrance, the vines which feed off the fleshy walls and travel to the skies. It’s a warm early September day, a few clouds scattered across the skies, guys milling about aimlessly without worry, for school doesn’t start for a couple days. They wear out of uniform clothes, straying from the normal oxford, khakis, sweater vest, tie, and blazer, sporting t-shirts and shorts willingly.

Leo’s eyes travel to the dorms once again, tracing the bold letters etched into the rock. _Illyria Prep_ the sharp wording reads, and the duffels in Leo’s hands feel heavier by the second, weighing his arms down. His chest tightens, and he averts his eyes quickly, following his student guide into the building, speechlessly.

The building is loud, crowded, boys filling the halls, talking and grinning, some throwing American footballs, others just playing cards on the carpeted floors. They pay little mind to Leo, occasionally glancing up, if they’re on the floor, down if they’re standing, at him. His guide, Neymar, moves quickly, encouraging Leo to keep up, turning and grinning to make sure that Leo hasn’t dropped his bags and run in the other direction yet.

All the doors look strikingly the same and by the time they have reached room 128, Leo’s head is spinning, the building overly humid, the voices unnecessarily loud. Neymar couldn’t open the door slower.

The inside of the room looks exactly like he’d expect from a typical boarding school dorm. It’s about the size of a large closet, in the nicest light, two twin size beds occupying the room, one on each sidewall, along with two generic dressers, and two plain-looking work desks. He tosses his stuff on the unclaimed and unmade bed on the right.

“So, training is at 8 tomorrow, and classes aren’t until Monday. You have your schedule, and uh your roommate-,” Neymar seems to be checking off a mental list of crap he’s supposed to be saying. He looks to the bed across from Leo’s expectantly.

 _“He was supposed to be here to finish the tour,”_ the Brazilian hisses under his breath, peeking his head out into the hallway temporarily before glaring at the empty bed once again.

Leo’s roommate’s bed is perfectly made, deep royal blue covers with silver trim and lush silver-shimmering sheets with blue-trimmed sheets adorn the mattress, and at least five bleach white brought-from-home pillows occupy the head of the bed. Two posters are mounted on the wall facing Leo, a modern-version red Ferrari on one, a bikini’d model wearing Gucci on the other. Beneath the bed itself sit duffels, all different brands of expensive: Dolce and Gabbana, Armani, Versace, Dior, and _of course_ Gucci. Leo didn’t know they even _made_ duffels. Leo is gawking at the fact that his roommate brought an actual _rug_ covering his half of the room to _school_ when the guy makes an appearance.

“Uh what’re you doing in my room?” The boy, about seventeen or eighteen, broad shoulders filling out his plain gray t-shirt (probably Gucci to be perfectly honest) completely, biceps and pictorials stretching the fabric, speaks to Neymar, looking down at him, for he’s about 6 feet tall. His skin is an even golden bronze tan and hair looks gelled and styled with care, and he wears simple Nike-endorsed shorts, yet expensive boat shoes. His ears are pierced, a diamond earring in each, glinting in the light. He doesn’t pay any mind to Leo.

“We talked about this, Cris,” Neymar says tiredly.

‘Cris’ rolls his eyes and grins a little out of the side of his mouth, “Yes, we may have ‘talked about this’, but that doesn’t mean I listened and it still doesn’t explain why you’re in my room.” His accent is thick and apparent in his voice, and Leo can’t decipher where he could be from, Spain or Colombia possibly?

“Your new roommate… the transfer from Bishop…? Do you remember talking about _any_ of this?” Neymar appears to be losing his patience very, very quickly. He tilts his head in Leo’s direction where the Argentinian stands out of place in front of his desk.

Cris flicks his gaze from the Brazilian to focus on Leo, and he senses the heat of the taller boy’s gaze immediately. Leo feels out of place, unwelcome, as if he really shouldn’t be standing where he stands. Cris narrows his dark, unreadable eyes, eyebrows furrowing momentarily before they soften completely, and a warm, relaxed grin forms on his face.

“Ah yes, the football player. Cristiano Ronaldo. Left wing,” Cristiano reaches a hand out and shakes Leo’s firmly and easily as if he is an old friend. Neymar stands in the doorway, almost shocked.

“Lionel Messi, uh center forward,” he says, focus flicking uncertainly from Cristiano to Neymar.

The Brazilian is sifting through papers clipped to his clipboard as though it will hand him the answer to how he should deal with a situation in which Cristiano Ronaldo actually does the correct and expected plan of action. He removes his eyes from the clipboard, where apparently his efforts were proved fruitless. He gives Leo a tight smile saying, “Well, that’s the end of introduction. If you have any questions, just ask,” Neymar pauses for a moment, the name stuck on his tongue as if he can’t believe he’s about to form it, eyes flicking toward the taller man, “Cristiano.” Neymar gives a short wave before exiting the room.

Cris hoists himself onto Leo’s bare bed, leaning so his back is against the plain white wall, “So, Lionel, where are you from?” He pats the spot next to him on the mattress, but Leo declines, moving toward his duffel and unzipping it.

“Originally, I was born in Argentina, but, I, uh, started boarding at Bishop Stamford a couple years ago,” Leo begins taking out his clothes and placing them in his dresser drawers, not that he’ll need them very much. He eyes the red blazer and sweater vest, gray tie and pants, and variety of white dress shirts and polos laid out on top of the dresser. Two pairs of sperries sit by the desk. It’s a completely different sight from Bishop’s uniform, the green-blazered white-pants establishment, which he once called his home away from home. Leo knows that Illyria will be different, Bishop’s rival school, and by staring at the uniform, at the crest on the left breast, he can feel the change already.

Cristiano is talking, about Portugal where he grew up until he was eligible to be scouted and was soon well-sought after by Illyria’s recruiting department, but Leo isn’t really listening. His fingers move like a rickety, wooden machine, clearing out his suitcase languidly and gracelessly, mind foggy.

“Why did you transfer again?” Cristiano’s voice pierces his subconscious.

Leo stands, shutting the last drawer and side sweeping his duffel underneath the bed. Cristiano’s eyes are locked on his.

“Uh, I, skipped too much class,” Leo grins sheepishly.

Cris laughs a bit at this, an amused smile tugging at his lips, “Skipped too much class? Hah. The guys were placing bets about it, saying you sent strippers to the headmaster’s office or set the dorms on fire or something insane.”

Leo shakes his head. He hardly steps out of line.

A knock is heard at the door, and without permission, four boys, obviously footballers as well, enter into the oversized closet-space that is their dorm room. Cris switches his surveillance from Leo to the other occupants of their space. A wide genuine smile permeates his face, eyes crinkling at the edges.

“Mis amigos! Come in, come in!” Cris spreads his arms out across his kingdom.

“Is that?” A fair brown-haired, boy toward the front asks, looking to Leo.

“Boys, this is Lionel Messi, the transfer,” Cris stands next to the Argentinian, swinging his arm around his shoulders, bringing him in close to his hip for an awkward side-hug, but the Portuguese doesn’t seem to notice Leo’s discomfort, beaming at his companions proudly.

“Lionel, these are the four biggest idiots on campus, Sergio Ramos, Gareth Bale, Marcelo Vieira, and Iker Casillas,” He looks down at Leo, beaming, and he suddenly feels small in his hold.

“Hi,” is all Leo can manage, feeling the heat flooding to his ears and cheeks. He wishes that Cris would just let go.

“We were going to throw rocks at the freshmen before curfew, wanna join?” Sergio addresses Cristiano.

“I don’t see why not,” Cris glows.

From the left, Iker punches the other boy’s arm, “We will be doing nothing of that sort.”

“Oh, come _on_ Iker, it’s senior year, live a little,” Sergio replies easily.

“I will not ‘live a little’ if it is at the expense of some poor freshman,” Iker replies distastefully.

“Oh, do you _always_ have to be so saintly?” Sergio almost whines.

Leo feels uncomfortable, especially when Cristiano whispers, “Want to come with?” in his ear, breath ghosting across his neck.

Leo’s heart pounds in his chest, and he shakes his head no, tongue struck numb, unable to speak at the moment.

Cristiano makes a face, a fake pout of sorts, before squeezing Leo’s arm and releasing the shorter boy, rejoining his friends who have already filed out into the hallway.

Cristiano is gone, but the blush still lingers on Leo’s cheeks and his heart still races and Leo doesn’t know why.

*

*

*

They sit in their usual spot, the window seat on the highest floor of the dorms, where they’ve been meeting since freshman year. Cris takes the inside, watching a group of underclassmen throw a Frisbee on the mall in front of the dorms. The orange sun sinks below the trees along the horizon, streaking the sky with pink strokes of color. It reminds him of the sunsets back home. He hasn’t visited in years, always vacationing with friends over the summer in his father’s various leisure homes across the world, in Fiji, the Greek Islands, Japan, Belgium, Mexico, etc., and over the winter holidays, he spends the break with Iker and his family, never in his four years away has he spent it with his own blood.

Marcelo sits across from him, leaning his head against the glass, “How’s the new kid?”

“What was his name again?” Bale stares at his nails, disinterested, to Cris’ left.

“Apparently he’s an unbelievable footballer,” Marcelo replies easily.

“Ooh, watch out, Cris,” Sergio grins.

“I expected him to be… _taller_ ,” Iker chimes in.

“I’m going to fuck him,” Cris says all of the sudden.

Bale looks up from his nails, “What?”

“You heard me,” Cristiano retorts, his tone is dead serious, not a hint of humor in his expression.

“Is he even your _type_?” Bale continues to press.

“How old is he anyway?” Sergio looks to Iker for backup.

“He’s in the grade below us,” Cris says calmly.

 _“Why_ , Cris?” Marcelo stares in awe.

“You could probably have anyone you want and yet you choose the tiny, pale-skinned transfer?” Sergio states. Everyone knows it’s true; Cristiano Ronaldo can have anyone he wants, without even asking. It’s been that way ever since the Portuguese showed up a week before school four years ago in all his glory, freshly tanned from spending his summer in the virgin islands.

“I can have anyone I want, yet that _excludes_ Lionel?” Cris snaps, slightly irritated. He surmised that his closest friends would support him through this decision, especially since he hasn’t sought after anyone since the beginning of sophomore year.

“What about the new kid, the freshman, uh, what’s his name, Iker?” Sergio looks once more to the captain.

“James?” Iker seems only slightly disturbed by Cris’ selection.

“Yeah, that’s the one! He’s decent, he practically worships you, why not him, Cris, huh?” Sergio speaks only to dissuade Cristiano’s mindset.

“A freshman? As if that’s somehow better than fucking Lionel,” Cris replies spicily.

“ _Yes_ because ‘Lionel’ is, like, three feet shorter than you,” Bale practically spits the words out in disgust.

The tension between them is palpable and Cris glares at Bale beside him.

“Let’s just take a breath, c’mon guys, relax,” Marcelo attempts to soothe the obvious rift that has formed.

“Where did he come from again?” Iker asks, in his own little world outside of the argument.

“Bishop Stamford,” Bale hisses between a locked jaw, eyes still lasered onto Cristiano.

“Hmmm,” Iker paces in front of the windowsill, “And please if you would be so kind to remind me, it seams to have slipped my mind at the moment, which team beat us in the championship last season?”

Cristiano can feel the blood rushing to his face, “Bishop Stamford,” he quips.

“Ah, I see,” Iker pauses momentarily, examining the floorboards before returning his eyes to focus on Cristiano, “And you want to fuck this kid again, why?”

“Because it’s none of your damn business,” Cris replies rather calmly, lips turned into a grin.

And the conversation is dropped just like that.

*

*

*

Mist loiters on the early morning pitch, rays of golden light permeating the dimness feebly. Players stretch on the sideline, all wearing their matching training kits, an eerie gray matching the dusk of the fog, dew fresh on the grass.

Leo sits beside Neymar and another junior who introduced himself as Kun Aguero. They talk among themselves about the lineups and the new pitch, apparently paid for by Cristiano’s dad.

Cristiano himself stands about twenty or thirty feet away by the tunnel, a tight, thin blood red and forest green Team Portugal windbreaker over his gray practice uniform. He’s among the four boys who barged into their room last night, all talking and laughing comfortably.

“Those are the seniors,” Kun says following Leo’s gaze, locking eyes with him momentarily before the Argentinian drifts back over to Cristiano.

“The tired-looking one with the goalie gloves is Iker, better known as _San Iker_ , he’s the captain and starting goalkeeper,” Neymar says respectfully. Iker’s hair is a dark mess, and he rubs his eyes and yawns constantly. “He’s not much of a morning person, but he refuses to drink coffee. Says it screws with his head.”

“I heard that when he was a freshman, he took the senior goalkeeper’s starting position,” Kun says, almost in awe.

“He’s the only player to be named captain as a sophomore,” Neymar finishes.

“Next to him, the insanely Spanish-looking one, that’s Sergio Ramos, he and Iker are, like, a package. He’s a defender with Marcelo, the one with the hair,” Kun continues.

“And you know Cristiano,” Neymar looks Leo dead in the face, but the Argentinian isn’t paying attention, because Cristiano is laughing at something that Marcelo said, head tosses back, flashing his perfect, pearly white smile, “His dad owns purebred racehorses and is, like, a billionaire,” Neymar says dryly, “They never lose a race.”

“Cristiano has his own private jet,” Kun adds.

“And last year, he tried to land it on the pitch after celebrating the win against Valencia Esquire Academy and ended up destroying the algebra classroom next door. But the jet was fine.”

“Nike, Under Armour, Adidas, and Reebok _pay_ him to wear their stuff.”

“Team Portugal has been scouting him since he was 7.”

“I heard he is dating a Russian underwear model.”

“He has a limo drive him and his friends around on the weekends when they go to town.”

“And Bale, the angry-looking guy, he’s really close with Cristiano, you wanna stay away from him as much as possible,” Kun speaks in a hushed tone.

The Portuguese’s hair is gelled and combed, hands shoved deep in the jacket’s pockets, unaware of Leo’s watching. He studies Cristiano’s cleats, gold and white, expensive-looking, just like everything else that Cris owns. Engraved on the sides is the letter-number combination of CR7.

Bale, the serious-faced, no-nonsense kind of kid, notices Leo’s staring, bringing the group, and Cristiano’s, attention to it. They all turn to stare back at Leo, who averts his gaze immediately.

Two uncertain-looking boys to the right gawp at everything and everyone around them, shifting weight uncomfortably from foot to foot, never making eye-contact with anyone.

“Who are they?” Leo nods toward the two boys.

Neymar cranes his neck to see, “Oh them? Those are the freshmen, James and Toni.”

“Only two freshmen?” Leo is in disbelief.

“The only two freshmen who made it,” Kun grins.

Coach Enrique’s whistle interrupts the morning peace, signaling the beginning of practice.

*

*

*

Leo _attempts_ to get through the morning, tries so hard to focus, tells himself that he needs to make a good first-impression, that he can’t screw this up but the seniors won’t stop _staring_ at him, one in particular especially.

Cristiano is fast, sleek, a panther, aggressive and fierce as he weaves in and out of defenders like cones. He glides across the pitch so easily, effortlessly, as if he floats instead of sprints like everyone else. Coach Enrique switches the lineup halfway into training, and Leo finds himself standing in the middle of Bale and Cristiano, exactly where Kun warned him not to be. He glances to the sideline where Neymar stands next to James and another player, Luis Suarez.

Bale eyes Leo warily, saying nothing. Cristiano grins, patting him on the back a little too hard, “So we’re linemates _and_ roommates now.”

Leo nods.

A sheen layer of sweat dots the taller boy’s brow, cheeks pink, eyes alight with excitement. He licks his lips. Leo looks away. He can feel Cristiano’s eyes still on him. A little ways away, Iker stands in goal, shaking his head, eyes glued on the three of them at the midline.

Practice seems to crawl on at a the pace of molasses after that. They run through drills and exercises and every time Leo looks up, he catches Cristiano watching him, eyes hungry, determined, dark. Leo always looks down.

*

*

*

Classes start the next morning at 8:30. Neymar’s tour barely helps with the navigation piece of things, and Leo finds himself constantly standing in the hallway staring blankly at the classroom numbers.

Third period is chemistry on the third floor, and it’s practically impossible to find the stairwell in the mess of other red and gray-uniformed boys all yelling and laughing and shouting over the other. Leo’s head hurts; he wishes that everyone would just _shut up_ for two seconds so he can figure everything out. And then someone is grabbing his hand and pulling him into the stairwell that is surprisingly empty.

Warm brown eyes meet Leo’s.

Cristiano smiles, glancing down at Leo’s schedule. He’s extremely close to him and Leo can smell Cris’ cologne. It’s earthy, familiar, like a burning fire, yet distant and new like an expensive car.

“I see we have chemistry,” Cristiano grins, bringing his eyes to focus on Leo’s.

He has to remember to breath for a second.

“What?” Leo whispers.

Cristiano’s finger drifts along the paper, “Third period, Ancelotti, chemistry.”

A persistent thumb tips Leo’s chin up to face Cristiano. The space between them is practically nonexistent. The hand wanders to Leo’s cheek, cupping it as the taller man leans in. Leo attempts to take a step behind, managing only to find the wall trapping him where he is as his back hits it coldly. Cristiano’s other hand travels to his lower back, tingling wherever it goes. Their lips are inches away. Leo can feel Cris’ breath caressing across his cheek. And then the bell rings. Leo pushes Cris away, sprinting up the stairs and down the hall to his chemistry class, slipping into the first available seat at a lab table unnoticed by Mr. Ancelotti writing electron configurations on the board.

The blush has just cleared from Leo’s cheeks and heartbeat returned to a normal pace when Cristiano waltzes in ten minutes late, a grin playing at his lips.

“Mr. Ronaldo, it is _so_ nice of you to grace us with your presence today. Would you be so generous as to join me in detention at 3 to make up for your absence?” Mr. Ancelotti turns from the board, a tired expression painted on his face.

Cris’ grin disappears, mumbling a, “Sorry, sir,” before walking a couple paces toward the empty seat directly across from Leo.

The Argentinian glares at the vacant stool that Cris pauses thoughtfully in front of before taking it, dropping his backpack to the floor with a loud, confident thud.

Mr. Ancelotti continues lamely with the lesson.

Cristiano leans forward across the lab table, expression playful, “What are you doing after school?”

“Nothing that involves you,” Leo hisses, eyes on the teacher still focusing solely on his chalkboard.

Cris scoots his stool in closer, bringing his face nearer to Leo’s, whispering, “Ah, so you’re free, why don’t we find something to occupy ourselves with.”

Leo doesn’t miss a beat, “I’m positive you have further arrangements that don’t involve me.”

An outside voice interrupts the conversation. “Mr.,” Mr. Ancelotti searches the class list attached to a clipboard sitting on his desk for Leo’s name, “Messi, please, I’d be so _delighted_ if you would only share with me what it is you and Mr. Ronaldo find so intriguing… at 3 o’clock detention.”

“I guess you _will_ be with me after school,” Cris winks, sitting back in his seat.

*

*

*

At lunch, Cristiano, Marcelo, and Bale all sit at the same table, Sergio and Iker running late from Trigonometry in the far building on the west campus. School food is gross, so Cris orders all his meals from the 4 star restaurant five minutes down the road in town every day and gets it delivered to the front gate where he can pick it up after 4th period. It’s not out of the ordinary to Cristiano, and people stopped commenting on it long ago.

Bale stares at his tacos distrustfully and Marcelo takes a sip of his water.

“Where’s your buddy?” Bale asks scooping a spoonful of beans into his mouth without a second thought.

“Yeah, have you, y’know… _done it_ yet?” Marcelo looks up sheepishly from reading the label on his bottled water.

Cris rolls his eyes, “No,” he huffs out, resting his chin on his fist, annoyed, “I haven’t had time to get a real conversation going.”

“What do you mean? You share a room with the kid and have like four classes with him,” Bale replies, almost disappointed.

“Yeah, but every time I try and start something, he just ends it right away. It’s like he doesn’t want to talk to me,” Cris thinks aloud.

Silence overcomes the table.

Marcelo and Bale share a glance.

“Like he doesn’t _want_ to have sex with you?” Bale grins into his spoon, ducking his head momentarily.

“How awful. It must be _so hard_ to be you,” Marcelo mocks, taking another sip.

Cristiano narrows his gaze, “It’s like he’s bored with me or something, I don’t know.”

From the left, Iker and Sergio come stumbling into the lunchroom, out of breath, pink-cheeked from running, grinning at each other, trays in hand.

“How’d you two get your lunches so fast? We had to wait in line for 20 minutes and that was before the junior classes let out,” Marcelo watches the two Spaniards as they take their seats at the table.

“We cut in front of some freshmen,” Sergio beams proudly.

“You too, San Iker?” Bale eyes him consciously.

The goalkeeper nods, taking a bite of his taco, an emotion that can only be described as disappointment and shame tinting his cheeks.

“So, what’s new?” Sergio begins, sorting his rice into one corner so they don’t touch the beans.

“Ancelotti gave me detention,” Cris pokes at his salmon, slightly uninterested, mind occupied elsewhere. In the back of his mind he still pictures Leo’s intense, dark eyes, soft lips, the way he shuttered almost under Cristiano’s gaze in the stairwell.

“Ah, he still has it out for you even after freshman physics, good man,” Iker shoots Cris a sly grin from behind his taco.

Sergio and Bale laugh a little.

“We’ve finally found the one person on earth who doesn’t want to have sex with Cristiano,” Marcelo cuts in.

Sergio chokes on his rice, _“What?”  
_ Iker pats the defender’s back from across the table, “ _Who_?”

“Why does it matter?” Cristiano groans.

“Because I need to find them and give them a metal of honor,” Iker says with a straight face.

Marcelo laughs at this.

“It’s our good friend, Lionel,” Bale grins.

Cristiano puts his face in his hands.

“You’re joking,” Sergio coughs, “The one person-,”

 _“Yes_ ,” Cristiano cuts in, “But he’ll warm up to me, we have a date set for after school today,” the Portuguese raises his eyebrows to make his point.

“I thought you said you had detention…” Marcelo points out, but Cris isn’t listening. His eyes are locked on a small Argentinian making his way with his tray over to a table with some of the younger footballers.

Bale follows Cristiano’s gaze, whistling. Iker grins.

“Speak of the devil,” Sergio snickers.

Cristiano ignores them, eyes following the Argentinian. A fire within his chest burns, and he longs to press Leo up against a wall, bite bruises into his pale skin that will raise questions and eyebrows until they fade days later, wants to see him blush and hear him moan Cristiano’s name in ecstasy. He must have him.

*

*

*

Leo stares at the clock in the back of room 331. 3:02 it reads. He looks around at the empty classroom, not even Mr. Ancelotti showed up on time for detention and Leo feels so _stupid_.

Footsteps can be heard from outside the classroom and Leo whips his head around just in time to watch Cristiano make his entrance. His hair is perfectly gelled and combed, a black stud in each ear. He wears the red sweater vest underneath his red blazer, gray pants that are too tight to be legal, fitting and complimenting all the right places. He loosens his tie and tosses his backpack down by the door haphazardly as if he owns the place, making his way over to Leo. As he passes, he lets his hand slide across Leo’s shoulders, taking the seat directly to Leo’s left. The shorter boy suppresses the shivers that run from his touch.

“Where’s Mr.-,” Leo begins, but Cris presses a finger to his lips to silence him.

“Carlo had a conflict, a _meeting_ with a certain Mr. Ramos about the most recent Chemistry lesson,” Cristiano beams.

“But Sergio doesn’t take Chem,” Leo stares at the door as if he expects Mr. Ancelotti to come striding through any moment.

“Hmmm?” Cris seems unfazed by this change in events, fingers coming up to tug on Leo’s gray tie experimentally.

Leo pushes Cris’ hands away, “Stop it.”

Cristiano’s eyes are a faded, focused brown, his face amused, mouth slightly agape. He can see his perfectly straight, white teeth and only imagines how much money his parents paid to get them that way. His lips are a pale pink, shiny, and Cris must catch Leo looking at them and grins. Leo blushes, saying nothing.

“It’s alright, Lionel,” Cris says softly.

“Leo,” the Argentinian replies all too quickly.

“What?” Cris stares, but Leo won’t meet his gaze.

“Call me Leo,” Lionel smiles a little, and it’s the most gorgeous thing Cristiano has seen in a while.

Worn freckles dot the bridge of Cristiano’s nose, barely noticeable. His eyelashes are long, graceful. Leo doesn’t realize how close they are until Cris is covering his lips with his. It’s gentle, slow, tentative almost, as if Cristiano is waiting to see how Leo will react. At first, the shock hits Leo and he freezes up, eyes wide open, watching Cristiano’s. The older boy’s eyes are open as well, watching, waiting for what will happen next, letting the Argentinian decide. And then Leo’s brain catches up with him and he melts against Cristiano’s lips, slowly and then all at once. His heart pounds in his chest, blood rushing through his veins double-time, thoughts rooting their way into his minds invasively. He allows Cristiano’s tongue access, cheeks burning red hot as the Portuguese threads his fingers through the short hairs on the back of Leo’s neck. And when Cristiano bites playfully at Leo’s bottom lip, the younger boy can’t hold back the moan that escapes him.

After that, Leo breaks the kiss, breathing hard, blush running underneath his skin, standing abruptly, glaring at Cristiano with dark eyes filled with lust and hunger and passion. Cristiano looks calm, relaxed, as if he expected Leo would do this.

“I-I,” Leo begins, searching for an explanation, “I have to go.”

But the shorter boy pauses for a moment, watching Cristiano whose lips are shiny with spit, eyes content, face poised, leaning back nonchalantly on his stool as he watches Leo, chest rising and falling evenly.

For a moment, it appears that Leo might actually stay until he turns on his heel, grabbing his backpack by the door and sprinting down the hall and out of the building. He doesn’t stop running until he gets into his dorm room, _their_ dorm room which they share, even though it’s raining and he’s soaking wet and the dorms are all the way on the other side of campus and he almost slips on the polished main hall floor, fumbling with his keys in his wet hands even though the door is already open, hesitating only a moment when he catches Sergio eying him from Iker’s and his room across the hall, the Spaniard staring at him confused and then a smile spreading across his face almost knowingly, before the Argentinian finally turns the handle and pushes door open way too forcefully, shutting it loudly, and pressing his back against the door once it’s shut again. His head is swimming, chest pounding, uniform dripping rhythmically, and he shrinks to the floor. His eyes flick over to Cristiano’s side of the room and even though the other boy isn’t here, it’s like he is.

The only thing that seems real is the sensation of Cristiano’s lips against his, the heat that released from his chest, the feeling of weightlessness and bliss that overcame him in an instant. And for a moment, Leo almost regrets that he left.


	2. Every Touch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so I don't kow how many chapters this will be, but let's just see where the story goes shall we?

“You only _kissed_ him?” Sergio stares at Cristiano, eyes wide in disbelief.

“Yeah, so?” Cris mumbles into his cereal, rubbing an eye tiredly.

“From the look on the poor kid’s face I’d thought that you took him to town, bought him a nice steak dinner, rented out the most expensive hotel suite within a 50 mile radius, and fucked him until the bed broke,” Sergio puts down his fork and shoves his plate of eggs forward, disinterested.

Cris rolls his eyes.

Iker storms up from the fruit salad line, bowl in one hand, fork in the other, “What is this I’ve been hearing about you getting it in with that Lionel boy? And on his first full day?”

“Who’d you hear that from?” Cristiano glances up at Iker who wears an expression of cross disappointment.

Iker shrugs toward Sergio before sitting down beside the other Spaniard.

“Well it’s not true, I’m a good boy, I don’t fuck on the first date,” Cris smiles to himself cunningly.

He glances up from his bowl, and notices a figure coming toward him hesitantly, a small Argentinian boy with messy, dark brown hair. Cristiano grins, and Leo blushes looking to change his direction immediately until Sergio spots him.

“Aye! Messi! Over here! Come sit with us!” Sergio is waving his hands, glowing with excitement.

Leo stands there with his plate, staring, unsure of what to do. Other tables are beginning to look over now, boys half awake bringing their eyes to observe the scene playing out before them groggily. Leo ducks his head and slides into the seat by Sergio’s side, glaring at his plate, refusing to look up at Cristiano or Iker or Sergio.

The table is silent. Sergio can’t stop grinning. Cristiano can’t stop watching Leo. Iker just eats his fruit quietly, ignoring the other three around him. Leo keeps his eyes down.

“So, what do you like to do for fun?” Iker begins, addressing Leo.

The Argentinian brings his face to look to Iker who doesn’t return the eye contact, “I, uh, I don’t know, football I guess,” Leo says uncomfortably.

Underneath the table, Cris reaches a hand out blindly. He keeps his eyes trained on Leo silently watching the other boy’s expression. His fingers search the emptiness until they find Leo’s knee, running along the fabric of his uniform pants. Leo almost jumps, eyes switching from Iker to Cristiano who brandishes a grin now.

He swats at Cris’ hand, but the Portuguese ignores the attack, wandering along his quad.

“Do you like campus so far?” Iker continues, paying little mind to Leo, more focused on whether or not Sergio eats his entire breakfast, “Finish your eggs, Sergio,” the captain commands.

The defender lets out a low, annoyed whine, stabbing his eggs with a fork in resistance.

Iker shoots him a glare, shaking his head, “We have a match tonight, _eat it_.”

Cris can practically hear Leo’s pounding heartbeat from across the table.

“Uh, er, yeah,” Leo manages to say. Beneath the table he shoves at Cris’ hand again that is now stationed on his thigh.

His face looks uncertain as he watches Cristiano’s. The Portuguese suppresses his grin, yet challenges Leo with his eyes. He rubs soft, gentle circles against Leo’s leg.

“How are your classes? Any favorites?” Iker pressures once more, bringing his eyes up to study the Argentinian for the first time this morning. He takes a sip of milk, eyes dark from behind the glass.

“I like history, it’s my favorite subject,” Leo says calmly, obviously relaxed and enjoying Cristiano’s handiwork.

“Ah, yes, that’s a good one. What do you think of the squad?” Iker continues.

Cris lets his hand move up now, not stopping even when Leo attempts frantically to remove it. Iker and Sergio are oblivious. Cris lets his hand rest on Leo’s crotch, grinning from across the table, momentarily immobile. Leo’s breath hitches, practically unnoticeable, but very apparent to Cristiano.

“Uh,” Leo begins.

Sergio, beats his eggs down with the back of his fork boredly, yawning.

Cristiano rubs Leo’s cock through his pants, already half-hard. Leo practically yelps. He shoots up from his seat.

“I just remembered, uh, I left, uh, my blazer back at the dorms,” Leo says quickly, blush spreading across his cheeks, speaking solely to Iker, eyes darting curtly to Cris at the end. He turns to leave quickly without another word.

“Weird kid,” Iker mumbles, downing the rest of his milk in one gulp.

*

*

*

Just after school, the squad gathers briefly on the pitch to stretch and cover systems before the big season opener tonight against Málaga International Hall, the team that has lost to Illyria for the past three years in the semi-final round. Leo sits in the grass among other juniors, between Neymar and a boy named David Villa who has Latin with Leo and sat next to him at lunch. The sun is hot, high in the afternoon sky, shedding golden rays, beating down hard on Leo’s neck. He reclines back on his elbows, squinting into the glare as Iker goes on about proper meals and hydration for match days.

“Protein, first and foremost, is very important,” Iker harangues, staring directly at Sergio, “It is your main source of energy and will stick with you throughout the day.” The captain counts down the points on his gloved fingers as he moves onto whole grains.

“Casillas takes one semester of health and now he thinks he’s the squad’s dietitian. Unbelievable,” Fábio scoffs.

Leo grins.

On the far right, Cris lies with his head in the grass, playing with the sprigs between his fingers, pulling them from the ground and twisting them around his pointer finger until they snap. The Portuguese stretches his arms out above his head, letting his eyes flutter shut, releasing a deep sigh of relaxation as the sun warms his cheeks. He’s obviously not listening to his captain in the least. His gray practice kit lifts just slightly, revealing a tan, bronze strip of skin at Cris’ hip, the chiseled “V” that failed to be covered. Leo stares, wide eyed, averting his gaze immediately. He can feel his ears heating up and it’s not from the sun. The next time he looks over, Cris is looking right back, pleased grin on his face, eyes crinkling at the edges, diamond earrings glinting in the sunlight. His chest tightens, breathing stutters and slows. He is in his own world when everyone starts to disperse and Leo is just staring.

Neymar tugs on his collar gently, “Suarez and I were gonna hang in the lounge until the match, wanna join? There’s TV and ping pong and pizza,” the Brazilian looks like he genuinely wants Leo to come with.

“No pizza!” Iker calls from behind, “What are you thinking? Did you listen to _anything_ I just said?”

Neymar rolls his eyes.

In his peripheral vision, Leo can see Cristiano getting up, dusting the stray tufts off grass from his clothes, talking to Bale and another, Mesut Özil, turning to exit off the pitch.

“Uh, sure, yeah of course. Uh, just, I need to grab uh my… my training bag, yeah, from my stall real quick, I’ll, uh, catch up with you guys, uh, go on ahead, I’ll find my way,” Leo says quickly, waving before Neymar can protest or ask to come with, jogging off toward the building.

The air conditioning is blasting on high, loud and distracting as Leo enters through the back of the training center. His shoes hit the polished floors with a quiet _pit pat pit pat_ as he takes a sharp right down the hallway to the locker rooms. He stares at the black speckled floors as he goes. The whole place is empty, every soul busying themselves with homework or other after school extra curricular activities that don’t involve the football facility.

The Argentinian is fast, ducking into the locker room, picking up his training bag in his hand, but pausing to listen to the steady drip of a not fully turned off shower in the bathroom next door. He huffs out a sigh, dropping his bag temporarily, detouring and shutting off the water, catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror as he passes, stopping to stare at himself a bit. His hair is messy, and he attempts fleetingly to tame it with a bit of water, failing miserably. He can make out the faint moons beneath his brown eyes that have made their home just above his cheekbones ever since the beginning of high school. His gray practice uniform doesn’t exactly fit, a little too big around the waist, too long at the sleeves, and a roomy head hole.

He shrugs and the pale-skinned Argentinian boy in the mirror shrugs back, returning to the locker room where a tall, grinning Portuguese holds Leo’s training bag, sifting through it nonchalantly, casually, as if it’s his own. But, Cristiano has a Nike-sponsored top of the line pro level training bag that he gets _paid_ to use. It sits in his own locker on the other side of the room, untouched in his top cubby.

“What are you doing?” Leo strides forward with light steps, grabbing his belonging out of Cris’ hands, “That’s mine.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, how could I have known that when it was lying on the floor with no one around?” Cris replies sharply, yet playfully.

“Don’t touch other people’s stuff, it’s rude,” Leo mumbles, dropping his eyes to zip up the bag.

“Don’t leave your things around where other people can touch them, it’s irresponsible,” Cristiano quips, grinning, teeth perfect.

And Leo feels so helpless in this situation, so self-conscious, he should just leave before he does something stupid, something he might regret later. And his eyes aren’t cooperating with his thoughts, roaming to Cris’ bottom lip caught between his teeth. He should go. Now would be a good time to catch up with Neymar and Suarez, maybe if he runs, he can walk with them the rest of the way to the dorms. But, his mind likes the idea of Cristiano pressing him up against the door, palming his dick through his shorts, pressing kisses up his jaw, nibbling on his ear teasingly as he jerks him off, and his feet stay planted. And the way that Cris looks at him, serious and hungry and relaxed all at once, it’s _obscene_ and Leo hates it. He can feel the heat running across his cheeks again and his cover is blown.

“I-I need to-,” Leo begins, but he doesn’t know if he wants to lie, if he wants to even _leave_ this time.

Cristiano raises an eyebrow expectantly.

“I told-,” he stammers, eyes locked on Cristiano’s.

And then silence overcomes the Argentinian. The only sound to be heard is the rush of the air conditioner as it starts up on a higher setting, sending cool air flooding throughout the building.

“Fuck it,” Leo sighs and then Cris doesn’t wait a beat before he steps forward, crushing their mouths together, hungry, fast, relentless, filled with so much heat, so much _want_ that Leo sees whenever he catches Cristiano watching him. He moans loudly against Cris’ lips, the older boy grabbing his ass through his shorts, pressing his thigh against Leo’s cock. His head is foggy, and his fingers tug at the bottom of Cristiano’s jersey, requesting it be removed, helping the taller boy in the process.

Cristiano is sculpted, built like a professional model. Kun said that Cristiano modeled underwear, has his own brand line and everything, and at first Leo didn’t believe it, but now, as he is pressed up against the Portuguese, tongue in his mouth, running his fingers along his abs, his chest, slotting their hips together, he believes it in its entirety. Leo brings his lips down to suck a bruise against Cristiano’s pulse point, dragging his teeth along the older boy’s skin all too slowly.

_“Leo,”_ Cristiano breathes out and it sounds so beautiful. He’s never heard his name said that way before, so full of want and desire, as if it’s the most amazing name in the world, as if he’s afraid that Leo could disappear with a breath and he must summon him to keep him grounded to where he stands.

And that’s when he hears the footsteps just outside the locker room. He tears himself from Cristiano who stands dazed until he hears it too, scrambling to grab his uniform and tug it on, fixing his hair. Leo bolts out the door, almost running into a slightly surprised janitor, racing down the hallway and out the front door, pulse pounding in his ears in time with his shoes hitting the pavement.

*

*

*

The lights that illuminate the pitch are blinding, hazy when Leo blinks the image of them away. The night is dark, clear, consuming, stars hidden by the shimmery glare, the moon distant and insignificant compared to the small world of existence around him. Despite the heat of the days, nights are chilly and quiet, breezy and vague. The stands are packed to the brim, students, townspeople, and parents alike, and Leo doesn’t doubt that there are a couple scouts scattered among the public, clipboards hidden among the crowd.

Leo’s red kit feels sleek and clean against his skin, heartbeat slow despite the nerves that root their way into his subconscious, noisy and distracting. The stitches that bind the Illyria crest to the fabric scratch against his chest, making themselves known, drawing his attention to the existence of something bigger than himself. To his left poses Cristiano, eyes determined and intense, fists balled up, the red uniform framing and cascading down his body perfectly. The Argentinian looks away. Bale, to his right, looks as if he could rip someone’s head off, cleats dug into the pitch with ambition and fire. The whole time Leo is watching the older boy, he doesn’t blink. The striped Málaga kits remind Leo of the Team Argentina kits, the same powder blue and white. They contacted him a few summers ago, informing him that he would remain on their radar until he came of age eligibility. Of course his father was ecstatic and Leo, only in eighth grade at the time, only shared half of the excitement, more focused on where he would be spending his high school years. And that’s when the decision to board was brought up.

“More exposure, mi hijo, the more you are seen, the better your chances are,” his father had said one night at dinner.

Leo just shrugged, if his father was happy, then he was happy.

The match commences at the shrieking blow of the whistle, shocking Leo’s legs to life, propelling him forward across the midline, a spark igniting within him. And boy does Leo move, thick into enemy territory, slipping passed his own line mates, plucking the ball from the feet of an unsuspecting Málaga forward, and continuing down the pitch. Cristiano and Bale are nowhere to be found, Leo surrounded by a sea of white and baby blue. One defender, two defenders, three, and Leo stands in the goalie box, feet still moving, alone with a confused-looking boy, about 6’5”, covering much of the goal vertically but little horizontally, and it’s almost too easy to pick a corner, putting it low goal post and across the little white painted goal line. And the game is only 20 seconds in. Out of thin air come Cristiano, Bale, James, and Neymar, followed by practically the whole team. The noise is deafening, the crowd on their feet out of the corner of Leo’s eye, shouting and cheering. His eyes are locked on Cris’ in the huddle of teammates, faces so close, staring at the taller boy’s grin, his eyes crinkled at the edges. The Portuguese pats his face affectionately, giving him a big, stupid kiss on the cheek, ruffling his hair before the cluster breaks and the red kits return to their starting positions. And Leo’s heart pounds in his chest unlike anything else he’s ever experienced.

The Málaga squad comes out hard after that and Leo doesn’t touch the ball for a good 30 minutes, staring at the board as the time ticks up a second at a time. He finds himself pacing in his little designated square of availability waiting for the defenders to pass the ball up. The grass looks dull under the bright light, the air feels cold like fall, and the pitch seems endless, larger than life. Down at the other end, Iker appears unfazed by the rapid-fire shots and makes each save easily, effortlessly, but Sergio looks as if he might implode from the amount of rushes coming down his side. And when Málaga gets one passed San Iker, Leo can’t believe it. There are only about two minutes left until the 45 minute mark, and it’s astonishing when the blue and white striped forwards cross it without warning to an open player who heads it in passed Iker. And Leo feels the weight of the goal, turning his back to the other team as they celebrate and call out and shout. And then, at the half, the referee’s whistle calls time, and the red kits file off down the tunnel.

 

Out on the pitch, the night has grown cold, for the game is dwindling, and the hairs on Leo’s arms prick up as the late summer breeze picks up. He breathes in the scent of moist soil and freshly trimmed glass, blinking into the winds under the glaring lights. He feels so relaxed, a place of belonging on the pitch, entranced in a state of momentary yet eternal reverie. And when he shuts his eyes, he sees the lights like stars behind his lids, a vision he never wants to forget as it clarifies the pitch. The pounding of feet like a herd of antelope rouses Leo from his reverie, eyes snapping open.

Bale passes the ball to Cristiano, who deadsprints down the sideline in an attempt to outpace the Málaga defenders. The gold and white boots laced to Cristiano’s feet glimmer and shine like the Portuguese himself underneath the shimmering field lights. His speed is unreal, incomparable, and Leo is surprised when he can keep up with him, parallel with the older boy on the other side of the pitch, open for a cross pass. Cris glances over, noting Leo’s liberality, face darkening into something mischievous, like a cartoon character carrying a box of TNT. The older boy sidesteps yet another blue and white striped shirt, making it look like child’s play, but before he can prepare for the cross, his feet are taken out from behind and he hits the pitch gracelessly. This was their chance, they were supposed to score, Cristiano was supposed to cross it to Leo, who, in turn, would return the favor and Cris would knock it passed the tall, lanky goalkeeper and they would celebrate together, Leo in Cris’ arms with Bale and James and Neymar following behind, but for that moment it would just be Leo and Cris, two hearts beating as one, and how much Leo wanted that he couldn’t say because he imagined it that way in his head, behind closed eyes, but the ball is out of bounds and Cris is collapsed on the pitch.

Leo slows to a trot, circling back around to push his way into the scuffle that forms to the left of Cristiano examining his ankle with grand fascination, a calm expression on his face. Leo finds a Málaga International Hall player and grabs onto the back of their shirt in an attempt to root himself in the tousle, to piss someone off just for the hell of it as he had never done in the past, for he’s never looked in the mirror and seen himself as an agitator, but Cristiano is in the grass and Leo is standing around and he needs to occupy himself productively somehow, but just as his fingers grasp the material, equipped to tug, he discovers himself being pulled away from the violence thanks to a stone-cold faced Gareth Bale.

“Leave it for the bigger boys,” Is all Gareth says, a reassuring hand on Leo’s shoulder.

And Leo would’ve, he swear he would’ve, but everyone’s been telling him that all his life, _‘you’re too small’ ‘you’ll get hurt’ ‘stay out of this one’_ , and he’s tired of hearing it, hates hearing it, and he nods briefly to Gareth, a “sorry” in advance, and sprints into the mass of teenage boys. He pushes and shoves, unaware of what he’s trying to accomplish, new to the scene and slightly confused. The referee blows his whistle loudly and repeatedly, but Leo doesn’t care, grabbing the shoulders of another boy with coffee-colored skin, hissing a, “Screw you!” for no reason in particular before Sergio Ramos drags him out of the crowd from the other side. _Of all people, it’s Sergio to be the peacemaker,_ Leo thinks to himself. Suarez told him in History that Sergio is known to get in quarrels.

Cris is standing by now, dusting himself as if nothing happened, squinting into the stands. The referee produces a yellow card for the offender and the game continues as usual, Illyria with the ball. And Cris catches Leo’s eye before the Argentinian makes his way back to the other side, winking and flashing a grin. Leo ducks his head, smiling sheepishly, face hot. He can practically decipher Iker’s glowering scowl at Leo’s smirk from across the pitch, for the scoreboard still burns a red, menacing 1-1. And Leo bites back his expression for Iker’s sake.

Leo sees Cristiano more frequently as the match wears on, the time ticking up seconds, minutes at a time. Following turnovers they share gazes, while the defenders earn their keep Cristiano appears by Leo’s side, and after yet another fruitless attempt at a cross, a pass, a rush, a shot, they shake their heads and glare at the other, full of fire and annoyance shared equally.

The game ends in a draw, an aggravating 1-1, and that’s that, players trailing off the field with the roar of the crowd behind them, the lights of the field just a glimmer in the distance. Coach says they played hard, they played well, but it’s still early in the season and they shouldn’t be discouraged, but Leo can’t help but feel that way. He could have done so much more, could have scored again or assisted, if only he had pushed himself more and found a way. It’s frustrating and when the kits come off and the showers come on, Leo mumbles an, excuse a, “I’m just gonna shower in the dorms, see you guys later,” on his way out to Kun and Ney with their own towels in hand.

Cris is the only entity between the Argentinian and the door. Leo slings his training bag over his shoulder, running a hand quickly through his sweat-damp mop of hair. The Portuguese looms tall, practically naked aside from a pair of perfectly white boxer shorts that look never washed, never worn. The label on the waistband reads CR7, the same as Cristiano’s cleats. Leo notice’s the bulge in the older boy’s boxers and brings his eyes up to stare into Cris’ dark brown eyes. He smiles at Leo, knowingly. Leo wants to take a step back, wants to go through the other door on the other side of the locker room, but his feet stay planted.

“H-hi,” Leo stutters, embarrassed.

“Nice game,” Cris says smoothly, voice even and deep and everything right. Leo gains awareness of Cris’ six pack, his silk-soft looking skin, and swallows hard. His biceps are massive, intimidating, and Leo shifts his weight from foot to foot.

“You too,” Leo says quickly, the need to flee building in his chest, pressure rising.

“Where are you going?” _Away from you,_ Leo thinks and Cris moves to place a hand on the Argentinian’s arm. It’s delicate, nice, nothing Leo can’t handle, but at the moment, he feels the need to exit as soon as he possibly can. He just met this boy, barely even knows him, how can Cristiano have feelings for him? Why does Cristiano have feelings for him? It all presents itself as so foreign, so unknown, so unexplored. But, the feeling of Cris’ body against his, the burning sensation of the older boy’s hands on his body has Leo wanting more of whatever it was they did in the locker room earlier. He’s never really done anything with anyone before, never so much as touched another human being in that way, and now, this small caress of skin on skin, Cristiano’s hand on Leo’s arm, rouses a hungry desire within him.

The smaller boy stares at the touch, heat spreading from the spot. He dares not to blink, not to breathe. He has to get out of here, has to leave or else-or else he might-.  
“Back to the dorms. I have to-I have to call my mother, she’s worried about me and I-she’s expecting me. Goodbye,” Leo lies, pushing passed the Portuguese, who stares with an expression of disappointment, almost annoyance, and into the dark hallway, away from Cristiano yet again.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What d'you think?


	3. An Opportunity to Dance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah I managed to find time write a chapter! Also it gets a little crazy in the first scene with dialogue, so pay attention to the speakers because there are two conversations going on at once.

“Fuck!” Cristiano practically shouts it, storming through the door of library, halfway through study hall the next day. It’s the period before lunchtime and Bale, Marcelo, Iker, Sergio, and Cris all share the B-block free period. Cris throws down his backpack on the empty chair on the end, practically knocking it over in the process. Bale looks up from his Psych homework with interested eyes, for his work isn’t very interesting itself in the least.

“What?” Marcelo doesn’t spare a glance from his own Latin paper, typing on his laptop furiously, occupied.

“Little fuck turned me down again,” Cris unzips his backpack angrily, tugging out his Chem textbook, _“Goddammit, why the hell won’t he sleep with me?”_ Cris hisses furiously, slamming the book down on the generic wooden library table.

The librarian, a wizened, old woman with thick rimmed glasses, hunched over her little check-in desk at the front glances up, stamping books in and out, to press a bent, scraggly finger to her lips, _shh_ ing the young Portuguese meekly.

Cris mumbles a disingenuous apology before plopping down in his chair.

Sergio gapes wide-eyed with a pained expression at his Trigonometry homework, _“She didn’t even teach us this!”_ The Spaniard huffs in disbelief, hands threaded deeply through his brown hair.

“What happened this time?” Marcelo asks, eyes scanning the screen, proofreading, biting a hangnail simultaneously.

“Let me guess,” Bale starts, a small smile playing at his lips, “He won’t let you do him because hates your hair gel?”

Cris cracks open the textbook, “ _No_. That’s not it at _all_.”

“I bet it’s your egotistic demeanor,” Marcelo chimes in tapping away cheerfully.

“No! What even-? I’m _not_ -,” Cris defends but Ramos interjects.

“Is it your _God-awful_ Gucci clothes?” Sergio persists further, grinning a toothy, cheeky smirk.

“No, no, no, _guys. Come on_. Be _realistic_. It’s gotta be the earrings that are scaring the poor kid away,” Iker says slyly, biting the end of his pencil as if in thought.

“Okay shut up, I get it,” Cris rolls his eyes, grabbing his backpack off the chair and sifting through it in search of a pen.

“Iker?” Sergio glances up across the table to the boy to Cris’ left who grumbles to himself in Spanish under his breath now that the conversation has paused momentarily.

“Yes, Sese?” Iker replies absentmindedly, “ _Unbelievable_ , third day back and he assigns a fucking project due Thursday.”

“I was so close,” Cris continues with his own separate conversation, pinching his fingers near together but leaving a space in between his thumb and forefinger of his left hand to represent his words.

“Close doesn’t mean anything. I was close to being born a girl, but I wasn’t, same thing pretty much,” Bale shrugs. He draws a little baggie of Brazil nuts from his uniform pants pocket, popping two in his mouth at a time.

The librarian looks up from her desk once again, when she hears the faint rustling of plastic, pointing to a sign taped to one of the bookshelves, a tattered and worn piece of paper that constantly is being torn down by the juniors, their only contribution to the school society to be honest, that reads “No food or drink”.

Bale recoils his hand holding the bag of nuts to hide it under the table, bringing it above in plain sight once again when the old lady returns to her work.

“Neymar nut?” Bale offers to Marcelo, who declines the proposal.

When Neymar joined the team freshman year, Sergio so enthusiastically, after discovering the poor boy was born in Brazil, coined the nickname for the popular Brazil nut, calling it the Neymar nut instead.

“Iker?” Sergio insists once again for the captain’s attention.

“We got to second base and then he ran away,” Cris sifts through the bottom of his bag vigorously in search of a writing instrument.

_“Yes?”_ Iker replies to an anxious Sergio, tracing a line on his paper against a ruler with a pencil. It’s crooked so the Spaniard sighs and erases it, almost tearing the paper with the force he attacks with the hunk of pink rubber.

“Maybe you’re hideously ugly,” Bale says suddenly, staring at something on the ceiling, popping another nut in his mouth.

Marcelo grins.

“Did she teach us the law of sines yet?” Sergio shakes the goalkeeper’s arm to keep the other boy’s attention, putting another dent in his line. Iker looks like he might burst.

“No, it can’t be _that_ because I’m magnificently gorgeous,” Cristiano replies with a grin, dragging a hand through his hair nonchalantly.

“There’s that arrogance,” Marcelo types on his keyboard without pause. Cris glares halfheartedly but the other boy doesn’t look up from his essay.

“I’m telling you, it’s the gel,” Bale snaps his fingers, “That’s what scared away the last one.”

_The last one_. Meaning, of course, Cristiano’s last love interest, a hotshot senior, with intense, dark eyes, shaggy, dark brown hair, and a sharp jawline. Cris remembers why they broke it off, never told the guys the real reason though. And although he’s over the few months they spent together years ago, he still remembers the feeling of control, of lust that he had over the older boy. Cristiano fiddles with the stud earring in his right ear, pressing his lips into a firm line at the memory.

The librarian glares from behind her glasses.

“Yes, Sese,” Iker huffs, staring at Sergio, ignoring his project for the moment.

“ _What?_ No she didn’t!” Sergio protests, raising his voice, receiving a _shh_ from the librarian.

“Some cleaning guy came in and we almost got caught,” Cris poses, accepting the pencil that Bale hands to him, for it’s not like Gareth is going to actually get through any real work anytime soon.

The table is silent for a moment.

A clock on the wall in the far corner near the door ticks quietly and loudly all at the same time.

From one of the back bookshelves a book falls off a shelf with a sad, distant thud. With no one to pick it up, the librarian, withered and weary, removes herself from her sunken swivel chair behind her desk, curling around to retrieve the depleted piece of literature forgotten on the floor.

“Yes, she did,” Iker replies tiredly.

“I don’t believe you,” Sergio says stubbornly.

“You don’t have to believe me, because she _did_ ,” Iker snaps, losing the last of his patience, voice at a loud whisper, rare for Iker in the library setting.

“Get a _room_ you two, we’re trying to figure out why Cris hasn’t been able to take this kid around the block yet,” Bale speaks with the saucy sass of a teenager, leaning back in his uncomfortable wooden chair, propping his sperried feet up on the table on top of his unfinished Psych homework, confirming that it will stay that way, unfinished.

“This has got to be some kind of record. He must have a will of iron if he’s waited this long,” Marcelo says good-naturedly.

“Maybe he just doesn’t like you,” Sergio states boldly, bleakly, starkly, with a tone of annoyance.

“What do you mean? _Everyone_ likes me,” Cris grins, sticking the pencil behind his ear with a wink instead of using it to complete any real work.

“Yeah, shut up Sergio,” Bale retorts, tossing a Neymar nut at the Spaniard to his right.

“ _I_ don’t like you,” Sergio huffs in return, folding his arms on the table and hiding his head in defeat.

“Ignore him, he’ll come running back to you in under a day, I promise it,” Iker suggests, tracing with the ruler again with immense care, tongue tucked between his teeth in concentration.

“No, I can’t do _that_ , I’ll drive _myself_ insane,” Cris shoots the proposal down, drawing a pack of gum out of his blazer pocket.

“Why don’t you just tell him what you want?” Marcelo asks, finally looking up from the screen. His eyes are red-rimmed resulting from lack of sleep, pulling an all-nighter to start and finish his AP English paper due that morning second period.

“Are you serious? That’ll chase the poor kid away for _sure_ ,” Bale sneers.

“Well, it’s better than whatever he’s doing right now… Which is…?” Marcelo looks to Bale then to Cris.

The table is silent once again.

“Exactly. Take the guy out. Go to a movie. See where things go. You can’t woo people solely with your charm _all_ the time,” Marcelo advises. He checks the clock on the wall behind him, craning his neck despite the fact that his computer has the time on the screen in the top right-hand corner. Maybe he forgot. He shuts his laptop swiftly a moment before the bell rings for lunch, sliding the device in his backpack, “Try dating sometime, you might actually get somewhere with it,” Marcelo finishes, swinging his bag over his shoulder and walking away.

Bale shrugs.

Sergio appears to have dozed off.

Iker looks like he might explode or murder someone.

Cris shakes his head. Getting Leo in bed might be harder than he thought.

*

*

*

Leo sits in the lounge with Neymar to his left and Suarez to his right, playing a game of Fifa on the Xbox, their regular afterschool routine on days without training. Suarez isn’t really paying attention, more engulfed in a text conversation than playing defense, so Leo is pretty much alone against Neymar. A junior, Gerard Piqué, scrolls his phone in a brightly patterned davenport off to the left, legs overflowing over the side casually. The two freshmen on the football squad, Toni and James, play Ping-Pong behind them, loudly expressing their displeasure when the other gains a point. A few other teammates play table pool and talk about the upcoming regimental dance Illyria is hosting on Saturday, inviting their sister school located across town, discussing possible dates and whatnot.

_“Damn,”_ Neymar hisses under his breath, missing yet another cross attempt.

In the background, quiet music plays to fill any silence that isn’t present. Down the hall, sock-clad feet race, voices carry, and the atmosphere mimics one of light, playfulness. Ney shoves his hand in a bag of chips, stuffing the fistful in his mouth, and at this moment, all Leo wants is to revel in his youthfulness.

That morning his father called, speaking with so much passion and fervor, about how Leo made the Argentinian national team roster, about how proud he is of his son. Leo only nodded, ear pressed against the community phone in the dorm lobby that he was summoned from his room before classes to answer, eyes glazed, tracing the melancholy gray square-triangle combination pattern of the polished floor. Villa had said the man on the other end of the phone said he was Leo’s father and it sounded urgent. Leo thought someone was hurt or had died in his absence and feared for those very reasons, only relaxing when his father had announced the news. Before being summoned so abruptly, he was busy getting ready for classes, dropping his tie that he was so viciously trying to tie in the mirror when Villa appeared in the doorway that he would return to after he had hung up the phone, sliding his fingers across the smooth materials, picking it up once more to make another attempt at tying it, failing yet again, until Cristiano came up behind him, pressing himself against the other boy, and accomplishing the task easily for him, eyes on Leo’s in the mirror the whole time.

And Leo making the national team meant that he had to shape up, had to focus on training from now on, had to spend extra hours, had to develop quickly to make first string. His father said there was a scout at last night’s game, impressed with Leo’s performance, his skills, his energy. And once again, Leo nodded even though the movement could not have been sensed through the phone.

“Aren’t you happy, mi hijo?” His father had said.

Leo nodded, “Yes,” was all he could say because anything else would disappoint his father.

And as he sits before the television, eyes resting on the video game, arms and legs slack, back sinking into the standard leather, cream-colored couch, apparently donated to the dorms, in addition to the entire lounge itself, by Cristiano’s father, he wants to stay where he is and live his life the way a teenager should. He sighs on the inside as to not raise suspicion.

“Who ya textin’ Suarez?” Neymar questions, eyes glued on the rush forming on the TV, fingers moving and pressing buttons at random.

“No one,” the other boy says quickly, secretively.

“C’mon, who is it?” Ney persists, a smirk tugging at his lips, moving the joystick with a flick of his thumb on the controller.

“Just… a girl…” Luis mumbles to himself.

_“Who?”_ Ney whips his head around to watch the other boy with large, wide eyes, “Tell me!”

Leo grins.

“It’s no one! Leave me alone!” Suarez claims, protecting his phone with both hands.

The Brazilian pauses the game, lunging across Leo’s lap to try and grab the device out of the other boy’s hand. Leo just observes contently.

_“Stop it!”_ Suarez yelps, attempting to keep his messages out of reach.

“Did you ask her to the _dance_?” Neymar teases, making grabby hands, winking and clicking his tongue.

“Why do _you_ care?” Suarez retorts, bringing up his leg to attempt to pry the younger boy off him.

“What’s her name?” Leo grins softly.

“Ugh, you too?” Suarez groans and Leo pokes his side jovially.

“She does have a name, right?” Neymar freezes momentarily, jokingly.

“ _Of course_ she has a name, you idiot!” Suarez rolls his eyes.

“Then let’s find out what it is,” Piqué is standing at the side of the couch and Leo doesn’t even know when he got up and traversed the room, appearing there suddenly, stealthily, smiling and plucking the cellphone out of Suarez’s hands smoothly, much to the other boy’s dismay, and unlocking the phone with ease.

“Give it back,” Suarez hisses. Neymar laughs and Leo grins.

Piqué raises an eyebrow, scrolling the device with one finger coolly, “Oooh, Sofia, pretty name.”

“Where does she go to school?” Neymar presses, stilling lying across Leo and Suarez’s laps, not moving anytime soon.

“CCPA,” Suarez huffs, crossing his arms, slowly losing his grip on the situation.

“CCPA?” Leo looks to Neymar for verification.

“Clarens College Prep Academy. The sister school,” Ney nods simply.

“She’s _local_. Did you ask her to the dance yet?” Piqué grins, glancing up for a moment before scrolling some more answering his own question, “Oh! You _didn’t?_ Well, we’ll have to change that, now won’t we?” Piqué begins tapping out a message.

“What? _No._ Don’t!” Suarez endeavors to reclaim his hijacked IPhone.

“Eh, too late, already done,” Piqué smiles, tossing the electronic back to Suarez before returning to his own seat.

“What? We just met-you can’t-I-I-,” Suarez stutters, staring, horrified at his phone in his hands as if he can’t believe he possesses it.

“But I did,” Piqué shrugs.

_“I’m going to kill you!”_ Suarez springs out of his seat, disturbing a relaxed Neymar, sprinting across the room.

The boys playing pool put down their cues and watch the scene. Even Toni and James pause their constant banter for a minute to take in the spectacle.

“Why the hell would you-?” Suarez starts, grabbing a decorative throw pillow off the ground, discontinuing his fit of rage when the device vibrates in his hand. He glances down at the phone for a second before dropping his raised arm and releasing the pillow.

“She said yes,” Suarez announces, cheeks burning bright red, voice quiet, eyes suddenly embarrassed and humble.

The lounge bursts into cheers and congratulations, boys jumping up and thumping Luis on the back proudly, jostling him around, Piqué getting up again and giving the younger boy a big open hug, grinning an, “I always know best,” grin.

And through all the madness, between the obscurity of bodies crowding around each other in the excitement, Leo watches as a handsome, tanned Portuguese senior passes by the lounge on the outside in the hallway, analyzing the scene with dark eyes, locking on Leo for a moment, expression darkening further before averting his gaze and storming off down the corridor, presumably to their shared dorm room. It’s the first time Leo has seen such a vague and agitated demeanor on Cristiano’s face and it’s puzzling. His teammates are too preoccupied with high-fiving and talking over each other to notice the small Argentinian slip out the door and down the hallway after the older boy already long gone.

*

*

*

Leo gets lost, takes a couple wrong turns, walks up a flight of stairs and then back down, and almost passes back to the lounge, before he arrives at room 128, head foggy and thoroughly discombobulated.

He turns the doorknob and pushes the door open. Cris lies on his bed scrolling his phone boredly. He barely gives glimpses at Leo who closes the door quietly, uncomfortably, awkwardly as if he doesn’t want to be noticed, as if he won’t be detected if he makes as little noise as possible.

Leo slides his sperries off by the door, tugging his deep red sweater vest over his head and tossing it on the floor carelessly, slipping off his belt and tie in a fluid motion. Cris’ white oxford is unbuttoned offhandedly, and since the weather is still hot, the older boy lacks an undershirt, exposing his bare chest and abs. Cristiano’s shoes are tossed carelessly off to the side, tie on one side of the room, belt on the other. The floor is a mess, a mix of Leo’s and Cris’ garments and books and belongings. Leo moves about the room, picking up items and arranging them into place.

The place feels different from the last time he spent an extended period of time in their room, yet again it could just be the atmosphere. He studies the décor fleetingly. A poster that wasn’t there that morning adorns the wall. It’s bigger than the other two, and presents the grand red and green Portuguese flag with the crest permeating the left flank. _Of course, why should I be surprised? He’s practically the poster boy for Team Portugal_ , Leo ponders.

“Is that new?” Leo gestures to the poster next to the Ferrari even though he already knows the answer.

“Yep,” Cris says without even looking up.

Leo grabs his training shorts and tosses them haphazardly at his laundry bag off to the side. The article lands with a quiet, depleted _thump_. That’s how the next few minutes go, Cris fiddling with his phone seemingly importantly, Leo clearing up the floor, tossing clothes into the corner, landing with empty thuds each time.

When Leo is finished, when he can see the floor once again, he stands and almost expects Cristiano to be watching him with those dark, intense eyes, but the older boy couldn’t be bothered even in the slightest.

“Is everything alright?” Leo attempts, voice shy, rubbing the back of his neck, out of place. He doesn’t really know Cris that well, so he can’t tell completely if he’s normally like this or just having a bad day.

“Yep,” Cristiano gives the typical teenager response that is a little more polite than ‘fuck off’ but still means the same thing.

A brief silence settles in the room.

“Are you sure?” Leo looks up from staring at his feet, at his red and gray striped uniform socks. Who needs uniform socks anyway? They’re _socks_.

“Yep,” Cris is still encompassed in whatever is on his phone.

“Was it me? Did I say something? Or-or-,” Leo is delving into unknown territory and at this time Cris looks up, face dark and inscrutable.

The older boy tosses his IPhone, the newest model, gold, onto one of his many pillows, the device sinking into the silky plush material, as he sits up and slides off the bed to stand above Leo, looking down at him, so close yet so distant.

Cristiano reaches a hand up to cup Leo’s face and out of reflex, the smaller boy takes a step back. Cris drops his hand back down to his side and Leo can see the flashes of annoyance behind Cristiano’s eyes as he rolls them, brandishing a smirk of irritation.

And Leo feels so small, “What?”

“Why do you run from me?” Cris snaps with a voice of venom. A snarl permeates his lips.

Leo says nothing for a moment. He doesn’t really have anything to say. His conscience reminds him that he just met this boy, that he doesn’t owe Cristiano Ronaldo anything, that he doesn’t even have to listen to this right now, he could just leave, but he wants this for some reason.

“You don’t even have an answer, do you?” Cris runs a hand through his hair out of frustration and exasperation.

And Leo doesn’t have an answer, and even if he did, he wouldn’t have the courage to speak his mind because the way Cris looks at him, it’s like they’re rivals.

“You’re a piece of work,” Cristiano rolls his tongue across his perfectly straight, pearly white teeth.

“I-I-What are you talking about?” Leo’s eyes move quickly, back and forth across Cris’ displeased face, wanting a different expression each time, but receiving the same disappointment.

Cristiano just stares, doesn’t even want to explain himself, doesn’t even have the energy to explain himself, for he suddenly looks very, very tired, “Nevermind.”

And he turns away from Leo and the Argentinian grabs the older boy’s wrist, “No, what do you mean?”

Cris shakes Leo’s grip off.

“What the hell? I didn’t even do anything!” Leo finally finds his voice, his fire, and Cristiano listens this time, turning quickly back around.

“Exactly!” Cris quips.

“So?” Leo glares in disbelief. _What does he want from me?_

“So!” Cris raises his voice but Leo stays strong.

“Did you _expect_ me to do something?” Leo retorts.

Cristiano let’s out a low, yet loud, groan of vexation, tossing his hands in the air.

“I just don’t fucking _get_ you,” and it’s harsh when Cristiano says it, like it’s a bad thing.

“Why do you _want_ to get me?” Leo asks and he truly wants to know. He wants to know the motivation behind the kisses and the touches and the gazes that Cristiano refuses to explain for some reason.

And this time it’s the Portuguese at a loss for words, opening his mouth, looking to speak, but unable to find his voice.

“Why do you _care_ so much?” Leo says a little too harshly even for his own liking.

In the back of Cris’ mind, Marcelo’s argument reforms itself, and he briefly thinks to ask Leo out to see a movie or something. The idea swirls in his subconscious.

Little do the two footballers inside the room know, outside their door sits Bale, Marcelo, and Sergio, ears pressed against the wood, listening to every particle of their conversation, the idea that Iker would scold them if he knew where they are and what they are doing lingering in the back of their minds like a dark secret.

“I don’t _know_ , I just do and you’re new and all and this is new for you and am I supposed to not care? That’s not what a good teammate, roommate, whatever, would do and we share a room and see each other every day, so we can’t just _not_ have a good relationship and-,” Cristiano is talking wicked fast, pausing almost unsure of himself now and then, using way too many vague and useless hand motions that don’t help his cause even in the slightest, pantomiming blankly pushing extra unnecessary words in his sentences, “and-,” Cristiano’s gaze is switching uncomfortably around the room as if searching for the words on the wall somewhere, “And, would you, I mean you don’t have to, maybe, want to, um, come to that dance with me?” Cristiano finishes breathlessly.

And Leo has never seen the other boy like this, for Cristiano always comes across as bulletproof, confident, suave and radiant and this is unsettling. The taller boy stares at him expectantly.

“The one on Saturday?” Cris continues further.

“Yeah,” Leo says, a small smile on his face, cheeks hinting at pink.

“Yeah to the dance or yeah to knowing it’s on Saturday?” And Cristiano’s cheeks are looking a little flushed themselves.

“Yeah to the dance,” Leo’s smile spreads to a full on grin now.

“Wait really?” Cristiano looks almost confused, gaping at the Argentinian in disbelief.

Leo only nods his head.

_“Really?”_ Cris is a little skeptical.

And Leo rolls his eyes.

It’s a little unexpected when Cris picks up the younger boy as if he were as light as a small child, kissing his face excitedly before putting him back down and tugging him in for a tight, warm hug, pressing more kisses into Leo’s hair. And it’s nice, it’s gentle. Leo’s head rests against Cris’ bare chest and the older boy has a hand holding it there reassuringly on the back of his hair, threading through it, not that Leo wants to release anytime soon.

And Leo doesn’t even realize how much wants it to be Saturday already.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good? Bad?


	4. Doubts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So remember how Cristiano asked Leo to the dance... haha....
> 
> This is just a quick update. 
> 
> PSA: a lot of sassy comments about Cristiano via the Blaugranas

Leo sits outside at lunch after Wednesday morning classes with some of the other juniors. Toni and James join as well, struggling to find other friends aside from each other and the football squad. It’s a mildly hot day and the boys sit under a tall, magnificent white bark tree to keep cool, lavished in rare shade. Leo plays with the untrimmed sprigs of grass betwixt his fingertips, squinting at the other students as they pass about, tugging off their sweater vests and blazers to keep cool, rolling up sleeves and unbuttoning top buttons under loosened ties. Overall, everyone appears horrendously out of uniform and Leo prays for the poor souls that will end up running into the headmaster throughout their daily routines.

Neymar pokes at his salad with mild disinterest. It vaguely reflects the leaves of the tree that they sit under. Villa bites into his sandwich and Kun finds solace in zipping and unzipping his backpack to occupy his mind. Toni and James sit in their own silence.

Ney seems to have come to a conclusion, pushing the meal aside, leaning back against the trunk, eyes watching a figure in the distance.

Leo follows the gaze of the Brazilian. The seniors on the football squad make their way through the white sandstone paved courtyard, all eyes on them, to the fountain garden, with their own lunches. In front is Cristiano, bumping shoulders with Sergio, followed behind by Bale, Marcelo, and finally Iker. Cristiano’s golden skin shines under the bright shimmer of the sun, smile radiant, eyes crinkling at the edges.

“He thinks he owns the place,” Neymar scoffs, speaking obviously of Cristiano.

“He has enough money to,” Villa says without missing a bite, eyes focusing solely on his lunch and not on the Portuguese.

“Repulsive,” Ney mumbles under his breath, glaring as the older boys continue down the path.

Leo switches his gaze between Neymar and Cristiano, “I mean he can’t be _that_ bad.”

Neymar looks over to Leo, grinning and fake gagging, “Leo, he’s _awful._ Arrogant doesn’t even describe him fully. He’s-he’s-,”

“Preppy,” Kun fills.

“Egotistical?” Villa adds.

“Not to mention selfish, vain, and narcissistic,” Kun resumes.

“Exactly,” Neymar finishes, nodding to the other two boys, “just stay away from him, he’s bad news.”

 _Too late_ , Leo thinks to himself, breaking off the sprig of grass he was playing with.

“Why?” Leo questions curiously.

Neymar unsheathes an unsteady half smirk, straightening out his legs in front of him, left ankle cracking as he does so.

“He’s flashy, overconfident, proud. Y’know, the stereotypical rich kid. Sometimes he’ll bring in drama and trouble where it’s not needed when he doesn’t get what he wants. Shall I continue?” Piqué stands in front of the sun, blocking the glare from Leo’s gaze, holding his tray, Suarez by his side, tapping away absent-mindedly on his phone despite the “no phone during school hours” policy. They sit without permission and delve into the conversation, except for Suarez who couldn’t care less, smiling at the screen, in his own little world.

Piqué begins, “Cristiano hasn’t dated anyone since sophomore year-.”

“Except that model,” Kun interjects.

“He’s just a walking pornstar, he fucks pretty much anyone he finds fuckable, and they’re fine with that, I guess, but I doubt he’s looking for a relationship, and unless you’re looking for that sort of thing, I suggest you stay away,” Piqué finishes.

Leo shakes his head.

“I heard when he’s in a relationship, he’s a royal asshole. He’s bad with commitment and cheats with most anyone,” Kun unzips his backpack again.

Leo turns his head to try and get one last glimpse of the Portuguese, but the seniors have already exited to the garden. He stares at his hands. It’s obvious that Cris lusts for Leo, he knows that part, but Leo has never really… he’s never _done_ anything with anyone before. He’s never even had a serious relationship before to be completely honest, and it’s all so different to come to a new school and all of the sudden be the object of interest of the most attractive, wealthiest boy in school, the star of the football team, and gem of Team Portugal to say the least. And some part of him does want Cristiano to press him into the mattress, fuck him until he can’t walk the next day, but another part of him is nervous, anxious, for his first time, and another part of him still is afraid that he will grow some feelings that Cristiano won’t return after the glory of their one night stand diminishes. At the most, they could become fuckbuddies, friends with benefits possibly, but nothing more and Leo doesn’t want that, doesn’t want to be used.

The focus is on Suarez now, Ney teasing the other boy about his date to the dance, “Are you two going to wear _matching_ outfits?”

 _“No,”_ Luis hisses, holding his phone close to his body for protection.

“Are you guys going to _actually_ dance?” The Brazilian is laughing now, tossing his head back.

 _“No_ ,” Suarez grumbles to himself.

“Mi amigo, I’m afraid that’s not your decision,” Piqué grins, thumping his friend on the back.

Suarez just glares.

The Argentinian is in his own little world really, swirling patterns in the dry, powdery, dusty earth when Neymar questions him, “Leo, any ideas on who you’re bringing?”

“He doesn’t _have_ to bring a set person. Some guys just go with friends and have just as much fun,” Kun punches Ney’s arm lightly, playfully.

Leo pinches his thumb and forefinger together, rubbing the excess dirt from his skin, preoccupying himself, taking in a deep breath before answering, “Actually, I was thinking of going with Cristiano.”

The group of boys under the tree grows silent. Even Toni and James suspend their side conversation to give attention to Leo. Villa ceases with the termination of his sandwich to look up curiously. Piqué’s mouth almost hangs open and Suarez has put his phone down. Neymar looks dumbfounded, completely and totally taken aback, surprised. Leo averts his eyes to the ground, blushing shyly.

“What? You can’t be serious,” Neymar’s eyes are dark, locked on Leo’s.

“He asked me to go an I think it’s gonna be kinda fun,” Leo shrugs simply.

“Why are you even considering going with him?” Neymar pressures still, eyebrows knitted together.

“He asked me, so I-,” Leo tries to explain but Neymar cuts him off.

The Brazilian raises his voice a tad to get his point across, “Just because someone _asks_ doesn’t mean you have to go with them!”

And the atmosphere is silent yet again. It’s as if everyone knows what’s going to happen if Leo goes with Cristiano.

Leo keeps his head down and his mind begins to race. _He’ll never have feeling for you. He just wants to get into your pants and although most anyone would be dying to be in your position right now, you don’t want that. Don’t trust him._

“He’s hot though,” James says quietly to himself.

Everyone looks up in surprise, even Toni, who whispers saltily back at his fellow freshman, “But he’s a _douche_.”

“Leo, don’t go with Cristiano,” Kun says gently, fidgeting with his backpack zipper again.

“Yeah, just hang with friends, with us, you don’t need a date,” Piqué offers.

“Besides, the last time he dated, it ended really badly,” Neymar points out.

“Who says they’re going to date? They’re just going to a dance, keep your clothes on, Ney,” Villa defends, “I say let him go. Everyone wants to go with Cristiano. I don’t even remember the last time he took anyone to a dance,” David tosses the last bite in his mouth, rubbing the excess crumbs on his uniform pants. He seems to have a lot of faith in Cristiano, that he won’t try anything, and in Leo, that he won’t give in.

Neymar trains his eyes on Leo, lips pressed into a thin, firm line, annoyed.

Leo returns his serious gaze.

And just like that, the conversation is dropped.

*

*

*

The weather changes like Leo’s opinion of Cristiano. As the day wares on, the sunshine fades until it disappears altogether, rain hitting the asphalt singularly, rhythmically, coldly. The breeze picks up and the leaves on the trees shiver. The final bell rings and classes let out. Leo gazes out the window as he swipes books and papers into his backpack. No training today, clearly.

Leo’s sperries hit the wet ground gracelessly, slapping against the hard surface consistently, without a beat. He ducks his head, allowing the drops to wet his hair, but not his cheeks nor face, eyes to the gray earth. That’s what everything feels like today. Gray. Gray sky, gray rain, gray uniform. It doesn’t feel right, feels off. There’s a sensation in the pit of his stomach that he did something wrong and that someone else is right. That Neymar was right.

He shakes the thought out of his mind but it crawls back into his conscience almost immediately. The walk back to the dorms is a long one and Leo decides to cut through the woods to save some time. By now, his sperries have changed shades of brown from tan to chestnut. The muddy ground is slippery, unpredictable and the Argentinian uses the trees to navigate.

The lunch conversation festers in his mind ruthlessly. Maybe he shouldn’t go with Cristiano. Maybe he should deny Cris’ offer and demand some of his dignity back. The boy trips over a root, catching himself on a low hanging branch before he can fall in the mud. He trudges forward, plucking twigs out of his tangled, dripping mop of hair hanging on his forehead. His feet squish in his socks, messy and sopping. But, what will happen if he turns down the older boy? Will it be a missed opportunity? A mistake? Yet again, it was a mistake in the first place _accepting_ Cris’ offer.

This morning, Cristiano was the only red splotch in Leo’s gray world, excitement, danger, passion, and now, as the rain pours down through the breaks in the foliage, Cristiano is the grayest fragment of the masterpiece.

Neymar is right. Leo shouldn’t go with the Portuguese; he should just go with friends. It wouldn’t end right if he went with Cristiano. Leo can’t be easy, can’t give in. The thicket disperses and Leo stumbles out of the wooded area onto the asphalt. His sweater vest clings to him desperately, stuck to his skin, cold and uncomfortable. In the distance, through the mist and film, the stonewall dorm building can be made out and Leo bites his bottom lip.

Cristiano is attractive, yes, he could never deny that. His feet move at a glacier pace, dreading what he is about to do. His backpack thumps heavily against his back. To the far right walk Iniesta and Dani Alves. They wave cheerily underneath their umbrella. Leo gives a weak smile, returning the motion half-heartedly.

_They know not what I am about to do._

Leo wants to go to the dance with Cristiano.

He wants very much to press himself flushed against Cristiano, teeth and tongues colliding, hands roaming.

His feet move a bit quicker now as if they realize the urgency of the situation, comprehending the unsettlement of his predicament.

Anyone would love to have Cristiano, Leo knows this well by now.

And yet, Leo still has doubts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How was it?


	5. Night of Surprises

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay for long edits! I had been writing this chapter for a while now and I finally got to finish it!

Cristiano is handsome to say the least. He’s more than just handsome, actually, Leo concludes, as the golden-skinned Portuguese adjusts his bowtie in the mirror on his side of the room, the Argentinian watching from his own side, sitting in the desk chair pulled out to face the door and his own mirror, phone in hand to give the appearance that he’s preoccupied with something else other than watching the older boy get dressed for the dance. Cristiano doesn’t look at Leo, not once, focused with fixing his cufflinks, as if Leo is the most boring creature ever to walk this earth and he needs not to waste his precious time on him, not to deign to spare a glance at a lowly peasant when he, Cristiano Ronaldo, is a conquering Portuguese king. Cris fiddles with the lapels on the suit jacket. Leo admires the suit momentarily, mind wandering back to this morning, when an entire tailoring crew paraded their way through the threshold of room 128, without knocking, at 8:05. Cristiano was already awake and expecting them, standing by his bed in the gray room, glancing down at his gold Gucci watch in annoyance as the procession of people flooded into the tiny closet that is their dorm room.

“You’re _late_ ,” Cristiano had huffed. He stood barefooted wearing thin, white satin pajama pants and a plain navy blue t-shirt.

“We are _very_ sorry, Mr. Ronaldo,” a short, bald man apologized before directing three women with measuring utensils to the corner of the room. He had a sassy, sharp French accent, which, if Leo had been more awake, would have found amusing.

Leo woke up at the first sound of voices, finding the unexpected company rather aggravating, for the first rays of light had not yet spilled through the window. The various seamstresses and tailors and fitters all chatted about loudly, as if the entire school _wasn’t_ asleep at that time. He blinked, bleary eyed, at his surroundings, registering on way too many bodies, wondering fleetingly how they all fit in such a small space.

Someone flicked the light on, artificial yellow sunshine filling the room, and Leo winced and groaned, tugging the sheets over his head. He peeked an eye out from underneath his linen fortress only to catch a glimpse of Cristiano glaring at him with silent disapproval. And Leo knows why.

Leo tried to go back to sleep, tried so hard to sink back into the warm, silky embrace of slumber, but the noise level rose steadily from there. Voices called over each other just to be heard, footsteps plodded and scuffled, and instruments clattered to the floor. Above all the ruckus was a single accent that Leo could identify with, the low, smooth voice of a Portuguese. Leo rolled and he shifted, but no matter what he did, he couldn’t shut that voice out.

And that was what led Leo to give up on his chase for rest and flip over onto his side and watch Cristiano get fitted for his suit with innocent, dark brown eyes, cheek pressed against his pillow, expression relaxed. At first, the older boy didn’t notice him, keeping his head up like the measurement attendant told him to so she could perfectly size his chest width while another still measured his torso height. Cris’ hair was perfectly combed, not yet gelled, but faultless all the same. Leo’s desk was set up as a suit table where different tuxedos of all style, color, and pattern rested. At the foot of Leo’s bed, which the small Argentinian couldn’t even reach with his feet, sat a pile of dress pants to link up with the jackets, and hanging from the doorknob were the button down shirts and ties to match. Belts rested on the back of the desk chairs and boxes of freshly shined shoes were stacked by the night table.

The measurement lady jotted down several numbers and then moved to the Portuguese’s arms. Sensing someone’s eyes on him, Cris flicked his annoyed gaze to rest on Leo, who watched him with curiosity. The older boy kept his glare centered solely on Leo, eyes narrowed and vicious. Leo observed him back, smiling a bit shyly beneath his covers.

And that’s when Cristiano turned his head finally, to completely face Lionel, sharp stare locked, hissing a, “Why are you staring at me?” from across the room over all the other superfluous commotion.

Immediately, the measurement lady reprimanded the boy, “Mr. Ronaldo, keep your head forward.”

Leo grinned a little wider now and Cris returned his head forward but still side-eye observed the younger boy distastefully with a snarl on his lips. A woman with puffy, curled brown hair instructed Cristiano to remove his shirt to try on a button down. Leo peered a little more attentively now as the Portuguese removed his navy blue t-shirt, muscles rippling under the motion, exposing his smooth, dark skin and taut abs, slipping the white contrasting dress shirt on with ease, allowing the lady to button it for him. And Cristiano caught Leo’s eyes once again, lips turned into a frown.

“Stop staring at me,” Cristiano said firmly and Leo nodded, continuing to watch. The older boy balled up his fists.

“Head _forward_ , Mr. Ronaldo,” another woman with a clipboard insisted.

Cristiano gritted his teeth.

It was Wednesday, late at night, when Cristiano came into the room, grinning happily to himself without a care in the world. Leo had rehearsed what he was going to say over and over in his head, in front of the mirror, in front of Cristiano’s Gucci girl poster, but when the Portuguese strode through the door, backpack slung over one shoulder, other hand in his pocket casually, Leo forgot every single word he had wanted to say.

“Hi,” Cristiano had said plainly, ruffling Leo’s hair as he passed by the smaller boy, tossing his backpack on the floor by the shared nightstand.

And that’s when everything went to shit.

Leo had a whole explanation planned out, even predicted what Cristiano would end up saying in return, but Leo just flat out wrecked it when he blurted out, “I don’t want to go to the dance with you,” blush spreading across his cheeks in hot forest fire fashion.

And Cristiano was grinning still, as if he hadn’t heard Leo correctly, “What?”

“I just want to go with friends I don’t--I’m not going with you,” Leo stuttered through his words quickly. He sat in his desk chair pulled out, hands sweaty, Cristiano on the other side of the room, staring at him in disbelief with disbelief turning to irritation.

Silence entered the room and gnawed at Leo’s conscience.

Cris rolled his tongue across his teeth like a lion preparing to devour his prey. Leo refused to look at the other boy fully.

“Who did you talk to?” Cris said finally, as if he knew.

“No one,” Leo replied all too quickly to be truthful.

“It was Neymar wasn’t it?” Cris retorted, eyes hostile, dark, inscrutable.

“No, I just don’t want to go with you,” Leo tried to gain a grip on the situation.

Cris smirked.

He looked as if he wanted to press for information, as if he actually wanted a good reason, but simultaneously, appeared to already know Leo’s logic.

“Alright,” was all Cris had said after a momentary pause, and the subject was dropped.

Leo didn’t see Cristiano all of Thursday or Friday. The older boy snuck into their room early in the morning after curfew, the space dark, bedside table clock burning a bright red 1:20 AM each time. He was quiet, but Leo couldn’t sleep both those nights, and each time, the quiet click of a doorknob turning alerted Leo of the Portuguese’s entrance.

Early Friday morning Leo had caught wind of a rumor that Cristiano was taking James Rodríguez, the freshman, to the dance, confirmed later by Sergio Ramos who just _happened_ to pass Leo in the hallway after third period Latin.

Leo looks down at his wine-colored suit, the one his mother sent him through the mail with a sweet little handwritten note, before glancing up at himself in his own mirror. His hair is a tad disheveled, nothing like Cristiano’s professionally styled and gelled hair, suit not nearly as expensive, face tired, unlike the other boy’s who doesn’t appear to have lost any sleep over the events of the past couple of days.

The Portuguese finally decided, after three hours of tailoring and tweaking and fitting, on a black tuxedo as dark as the impending night, a new, diamond earring in each ear, and freshly shined, brand name dress shoes on each foot. He takes on the appearance of a purebred racehorse, one of his father’s showpieces, that never loses a race.

A knock is heard at the door, and Cris looks expectantly to Leo to open it even though he’s closer. The older boy nods toward the door. Leo just stares at him. Reluctantly, Cristiano pauses with his belt buckling, rolling his eyes as he makes his way with loud, expensive shoes hitting the floor, to pull the door open.

Neymar stands there, expecting Leo, receiving Cristiano, smile dropping immediately, expression turning inimical. Leo can’t really see what Cristiano’s face looks like, but he surmises it’s nothing short of pissed off, for the boy who interrupted their plans stands at their doorstep. Leo hurries to grab his phone off the night table, checking his hair in the mirror briefly, too quickly to even do any good, before rushing to the door where Cristiano blocks his passage. Cris still locks his glare on Neymar, wordlessly. Leo stands behind Cristiano like a girl going on her first date with a boy that her dad doesn’t approve of, carrying a shotgun in his hand when she will return later that night. Cris shoots a quick glare at Leo, full of disappointment, anger, and something else Leo can’t identify, before he shoves the younger boy out the door with one hand.

“Bring him back in one piece,” is all Cristiano says before shutting the door.

Leo looks to Neymar and Neymar looks to Leo, wordlessly.

As they walk down the corridor, Leo can only think how long this year is going to be.

*

*

*

The school gymnasium is all lights out, opaque and pitch black with scattered, colorful strobe lights. Glitter and confetti covers the floor and Leo secretly sympathizes with the janitor that has to clean up the place. The air is humid, like thick melted chocolate, ground mildly sticky, pleading Leo’s feet to stay put each time he steps. The space, meant only to contain three hundred, now holds about seven hundred and fifty teenagers, music loud, beat thumping under Leo’s skin.

Girls wear skin tight dresses high above the knee, higher than the hem length rule that no one follows, and boys have already shucked their blazer jackets, tossing them on the bleachers carelessly to deal with finding later, dancing in button down shirts and ties and two piece suits. Red painted lips of girls move in tune with the words of the music or pressed against the lips of a boy, eyes traced with thick black eyeliner and mysterious shades of eye shadow. The teacher chaperones see nothing, hear nothing, not that they’d want to in the first place, minding their own business, lurking in dark corners to avoid the excitement.

Leo enters through the double doors, Ney by his side who slings a comfortable arm around Leo’s shoulders. A red plastic cup is thrust into Leo’s sweaty, nervous palm by Piqué who walks by the side of a girl with curly ringlets of blonde hair. Leo swirls the cup around in his hand, staring disapprovingly at the liquid within that he can’t make out through the dimness of the atmosphere. He sniffs the substance and frowns. Alcohol, obviously.

“It’s good,” Piqué says with a slick grin, nodding.

Leo drops his eyes down then flicks them back up to scan the room, noticing that most everyone holds a red plastic cup in one hand. Across the space, Leo makes brief eye contact with a girl with long brown hair and soft eyes, wearing a flowing magenta pink dress. She smiles sweetly at him and Leo glances back down at the drink.

_If I swallow this, I don’t know what I’ll end up doing._

Discreetly, when Piqué has turned away, Leo presses the cup into the empty palm of a girl dancing on a boy to Leo’s right, who accepts the plastic without objection or realization. The Brazilian guides Leo forward, around the couples and clusters, avoiding the bumping and grinding of the other teenagers, finding themselves in the middle of the whirlpool that is the dance floor. The music is louder here, the heat thicker, the smell of liquor more pungent, and Leo starts to like the dance less and less. Kun engages in thoughtful conversation with Toni who looks petrified by the entire scene playing out before him, glancing about every now and then for James, wondering where the hell the other freshman is and why he has left him to fend for himself. Villa is off to Leo’s right, sweet-talking two girls, using a lot of hand motions and gestures, grinning more than necessary. Suarez drifts among his peers, holding the hand of a girl who Leo assumes is Sofia. The darkness is really an obstacle in all of this, for someone presses a little round pill into Leo’s fingers and sneaks away before the Argentinian boy can even turn around and see who it is. He stares at the little white supplement, rolling it between his thumb and forefinger skeptically, he glances up to see if anyone is watching, and for a moment, he almost thinks to take it. Instead, he slips it into the pocket of Neymar’s suit jacket while the other boy stops to chat with Mascherano.

Suddenly, within the little circle of footballers, and all around them, a commotion begins to stir and heads turn toward the entrance. And Leo rolls his eyes so far back he can practically see the inside workings of his own brain. Sergio Ramos, Iker Casillas, Gareth Bale, and Cristiano Ronaldo slowly make their way forward, girls flocking and swooning. Marcelo’s fingers are intertwined with a girl wearing a tight, short, black dress, brown hair draping across her shoulders, Gareth walking with two girls by his side already, tie loosened and shirt untucked nonchalantly. Sergio walks by Iker’s side, bumping shoulders with the goalkeeper and taking on an appearance that shows he isn’t interested in the crowd of ladies, with and without dates, congregating. And then there’s the god himself, Cristiano Ronaldo, hair perfectly combed and styled, thousand dollar earring in each ear, gold watch on his wrist triple the amount, flashing smiles and winking at girls, even those who have dates with their arms slung around their shoulders, concreting them in place so they won’t end up ditching them for someone they didn’t even know they wanted until now. His suit is perfectly tailored, showing off all the parts of his frame that were meant to be flaunted.

Leo remembers how soft, almost tentative Cris was when he asked Leo to the dance, holding him close, gently, as if he was afraid he would lose Leo if he loosened his hold in the slightest. The younger boy sees none of that now. Cristiano walks in with the all swagger of a footballer who just won the Ballon d’Or, an uncertain James Rodríguez at the hip. The seniors cut through the sea of teenagers, resuming their previous activities as a new, faster, louder song has begun to play. The older boys station their headquarters on the other side of the dance floor, yet, not far enough away from Leo.

And his gaze returns to James, looking just as confused and frightened as Toni with all the light and noise and bodies and smells. Leo stares only for a moment, a feeling that resembles momentary jealousy rising up in his chest. He can feel his fists ball up at his sides. But when Cris turns from talking to Sergio, he catches a glimpse of Leo and grins a cocky, self-absorbed smile, diamond earrings in each ear twinkling under the strobe lights. And Leo looks away. _He_ turned down Cris, he should be happy.

Neymar is no longer by Leo’s side, but across their small area, red solo cup in hand, now calling Leo by name and waving him to come over. The Argentinian’s feet move slowly as though they are made of stone, scuffing across the floor in a fashion that would shame his mother. Leo forces a smile to his lips, eyes flicking over to the girl standing at Ney’s side, deep rose-colored dress draping over rich, tan honey-colored skin. Her eyes are a cozy dark brown, smile bright and gentle.

“Leo, this is Antonella,” Neymar winks, hand carefully on the girl’s shoulder as if he might thrust her toward Leo any moment. Leo’s eyes shoot across the room to Cristiano momentarily, the older boy watching him curiously, matching red solo cup in his grasp, sipping at the substance experimentally.

“Leo?” Neymar calls the Argentinian’s attention back to earth and Leo blushes a little, ducking his head, apologizing quietly to himself before extending a hand out to the girl in the fuchsia dress. Leo knows his hands are warm and mildly sweaty, but Antonella shakes his hand nonetheless, not commenting on his moist palms.

Leo assumes that he would just meet Antonella and then go his separate way and enjoy the dance on his own with his friends. But Neymar slips away soon after the introduction leaving the Argentinian to stare at the girl uncomfortably and shift his weight from foot to foot, music blaring through the speakers. He rubs his neck and averts his gaze again to Cristiano tucking a strand of hair behind James’ ear, talking to him very intimately. Leo smiles shyly at Antonella.

“So, what do you like to do?” He says, attempting to blot the Portuguese out of his mind.

Antonella doesn’t have a red cup in her hand and she smells like flowers and something hardy, firewood mixed with sage. He finds out that she wants to be a model someday and that she doesn’t really like football, much to Leo’s pretend dismay. He doesn’t really care about their conversation fully and distracts his attention frequently to Cristiano. Leo doesn’t know why he does it and scolds himself continuously for caring. The gym only grows hotter, more humid as the night wares on, and Leo slowly begins to think that he’s losing his hearing, for his “What?”s and “Huh?”s grow more constant within their conversation. But, Antonella doesn’t seem to mind. She smiles and giggles and pouts and if Leo wasn’t so focused on Cristiano and his whereabouts, then he might have given the poor girl a little more attention than presently.

Every ten or eleven songs, a slow song permeates the air and singles and casual friends clear the dance space to allow room for couples. The first few times, Leo is able to avoid dancing with Antonella, pretending to be engulfed in the conversation too much to make a move. She seems disappointed, but soon enough, Leo and Antonella have migrated to the very pit of the peach, the center of all the excitement, when the next slow song comes on. And Leo can’t get out of this one, for their conversation has momentarily paused, none of his friends were to be found, and Antonella looks to Leo with hopeful eyes.

“Want to-would you-I mean only if you really want to-dance…with me?” Leo secretly hopes that he’s read her signs all wrong for the passed three hours and that she declines his offer.

“I’d love to,” She blushes.

Leo suppresses a groan and really wishes he had downed that first drink handed to him or swallowed that pill that he originally presumed was ecstasy. Antonella rests her head softly on Leo’s shoulder, even though they’re the same height with heels, looping her arms around his shoulders, allowing Leo to rest his still sweaty hands on her lower back. The soft silky fabric of her dress rushes to caress against Leo’s fingers where he lets them relax. He stares straight forward, very aware of the heat of their bodies pressed together, swaying peacefully along with the other couples, mind elsewhere. He dares not move his head to disturb the girl and just continues to shift aimlessly as the others do. The song feels like an eternity and he wishes for it to end. He doesn’t know how to slow dance, not even a little bit, and it’s uncomfortable to take the appearance that he has done this before when he hasn’t.

And then the unexpected happens. Amid the temperate melody, David Villa shoves through the crowd with an indefinable excitement, eyes resting on Leo.

“Hey, can I-I talkto you?” his words are slurred, red cup in hand, looking a little off balance.

Leo is relieved, releasing his hold on Antonella and stepping aside briefly, unprepared for the next move. Villa covers Leo’s mouth with his own, quickly, unpredictably, and Leo isn’t the one to break the kiss, nor is David.

Cristiano comes out of nowhere, prying the other boy off Leo, shoving him and yelling over the calm music, causing heads to turn and couples to discontinue their swaying.

“What the hell are you doing?” Cristiano snaps.

Villa appears to be in another world, intoxicated and blistered off his rocker.

“Why isit any of yourbusiness?” Villa slurs, taking a tipsy step back. By now, Piqué, Kun, Suarez and Neymar have shown up by Leo’s side and Sergio, Iker, Gareth and Marcelo behind Cris. James stands awkwardly off to the side watching the whole ordeal. Antonella is next to Leo, fingers barely touching his in an attempt to hold his hand.

“You’re drunk,” Cristiano states flatly.

“And you’re an,” Villa’s insult is interrupted by a hiccup, “idiot.”

Cristiano grins and nods sarcastically as if he agrees with that statement before he lunges forward tackling Villa who just barely manages to stay upright, but the red solo cup in his hand, not so much. The plastic cup is knocked clean out of his hand, spilling its sticky, malodorous contents all over Antonella who tenses up when the cold liquid hits her skin, staining her dress and running down her front and face. She screams and runs in the other direction.

A fight has begun before Leo at the center of the dance floor. All couples have stopped dancing and have formed a circle around the action. The slow song still plays absentmindedly in the background as if it is not aware of the commotion. Neymar goes after Gareth, grabbing the front of his shirt and throwing punches. Piqué shoves an enraged Sergio Ramos who spits expletives freely. Calm, cool Marcelo practically has Kun in a headlock and even Iker deigns to say a couple mean words to a fired up Suarez, annoyed that his slow dance with Sofia was interrupted by this idiocy. And then there’s Cristiano and Villa, swinging punches, shoving each other, speaking nonsense, mainly from David’s side. Leo pinches the bridge of his nose as the once oblivious teacher chaperones wrench their way through the wall of teenagers, yanking the boys from each other’s grip.

“Get out! All of you! This is a respectable regimental occasion! Roughhousing will not be tolerated, get out!” A teacher grabs Cristiano by the collar of his freshly pressed and starched white designer button down shirt, and presents him off in the other direction followed by Sergio, Iker, Marcelo, Gareth, and through the opposite exit, stalks Neymar, Villa, Piqué, a furious Suarez, and Kun. Leo stands by himself now as the room feels drained of all energy with the absence of his teammates and even Antonella. He catches James’ astonished expression directly across from him, smiling a little at his innocence. The poor boy has no idea what happened and why it did and Leo knows that he could never be jealous of Cristiano getting close to James. He swings an arm around the younger boy’s shoulders and together they exit out of the dance.

In the dark hallway outside the gym, the older boys lurk, leaning against the wall. Bale throws his hands in the air when he lays eyes on James, exasperated.

“ _There_ you are. Cris wouldn’t leave without you,” Gareth hisses, “C’mon let’s go.” He swings his arms across James’ shoulders and the five of them start down the lightless corridor. Leo only counts four seniors, the tallest, most built figure absent from the mix. The seniors continue, nonetheless, without Cristiano, and turn a corner into the main hall where they will most likely exit through the front into the night.

Leo lets out a breath, shoving his hands deep in his pockets, leisurely making his way across the polished floors in a halfhearted effort rejoin his friends who are probably halfway to the dorms by now. And then the force of a full grown Portuguese bull clad in black, strikes Leo, the unsuspecting matador dressed foolishly in red, by the ribs and pins him against the lockers, hidden from sight and mind down an opposite corridor from the main vein of channels. Cristiano crushes Leo’s shoulders into the cold metal of the lockers, flesh digging into the vented part jutting out into the small boy’s muscles, making him shift uncomfortably.

The bull is grinning, wild eyes baring into Leo’s, cheeks pink through the opaqueness of the dim walkway. He licks his lips briefly, chest rising and falling unevenly. A black eye is beginning to form underneath his left eye, puffy and painful, blue hue tracing just beneath the bone there. Leo longs to touch it, to press his finger against the tender skin and hear Cristiano moan at the discomfort. But his arms are pinned and Cristiano is bigger, using his size to his advantage.

“Shouldn’t you be with your _date_?” Leo quips between gritted teeth as he attempts to buck himself free from under the bull.

Cristiano steadies the attack instantly with little difficulty, expression arrogant.

“Shouldn’t you be with _yours_?” Cristiano’s voice is husky, laced with desire.

The older boy refers only to Antonella, which Leo finds humorous, because there was nothing there for Leo in the girl in the rose dress.

Cristiano shoves Leo harder against the locker as if afraid Leo would slip away and run off to his dance partner, jealousy very apparent. Leo thinks against correcting Cristiano, telling him he felt nothing for her, but he just grins a little at the taller boy’s obliviousness. And that’s when Cristiano’s expression drops, turning into something resembling a sneer, eyes dense, leaning in slowly and oh so gently pressing his lips to Leo’s. He towers over Leo, nibbling on Leo’s bottom lip softly. Up close, Cristiano smells sweet like vanilla and something sharp and enticing, pepper or cedar wood. There’s no alcohol on Cristiano’s tongue and the idea that Cristiano is doing all this sober has a blush racing across Leo’s cheeks in an instant.

Cristiano breaks the kiss tenderly, leaning back just enough to press their foreheads together and look into Leo’s eyes. Racing heartbeats reflect the other in this isolated hallway and Cristiano examines the other boy briefly, smirking a little.

Leo sees the arrogance his teammates had mentioned that day under the shady tree. “You assho-,” Leo begins before Cristiano cuts off the final syllable, crushing their mouths together roughly, catching the Argentinian’s lip between his teeth, dropping one of his arms to loop Leo’s hips closer to Cristiano. Leo could run. He could duck out of the older boy’s hold easily, as simply as weaving in and out of defensemen on the pitch, but instead, he finds his hand moving to the back of Cristiano’s head to hold it there, lacing fingers into thick, dark strands of hair. Cristiano’s grin is prominent against Leo’s lips, faces so close the smaller boy can practically _feel_ the heat radiating off his counterpart. And this time, it’s Cristiano to draw back from the kiss slowly, Leo breathless and wanting more, hand resting gently on the older boy’s chest, so much potential with not enough fuel. And behind closed eyelids and a head that rests against a cool locker when Cristiano has gone, leaving the small Argentinian boy alone in the hallway with his feelings and racing heartbeat, Leo imagines that relaxed hand resting so gently before, grabbing fistfuls of that tailored dress shirt, the one that Leo was woken up for this morning, as Cristiano presses his body up against those very lockers he relaxes against, fucking him fast and hard until he sees stars. And Leo doesn’t watch Cristiano leave and Cristiano doesn’t look back, but Leo fights the urge to run after the older boy, to quell the sea rising within him.

 

Leo takes a bit to calm down. After he’s sure no one is around, he steals around a discreet corner, stroking himself into an orgasm, biting his bottom lip to contain any noises, zipping up his crimson pants and darting down the main hall into the night air before anyone could prove he did anything.

The night air is humid, a distant wind blowing across the obscure wasteland of a vacated campus. The moon is solid white, providing some stability and normality back into Leo’s racing thoughts as his feet unconsciously begin to hit the asphalt harder and with purpose. The stars are minimal, and Leo can only count about twenty as he tries to give his feet a reason to slow down without directly telling them. The miniscule dots against the black are dim, barely visible compared to the luminous, boisterous moon, but Leo knows that the sun, the king of the sky, will peak over the horizon and dominate the moon’s sphere with more favor in his court than any other moon, planet, or star in the heavens. Because the sun, in all its glory and beauty, is recognized as more brilliant, more glamorous, and overall better than the moon, and if there were an award given to the best orb in the sky, a golden ball of sorts handed only to the best, then Leo is sure that it would be given to the flashy, confident sun instead of the shy, reserved moon. And Leo walks faster now, is practically sprinting across the early morning battlefield because the moon is making him sad and the sun is curling up from the skyline.

The main lobby of the dorms is lit with the usual, reassuring 24 hour yellow lights. Leo is pretty sure it could be the day after the end of the world and the only building in the entire world with electricity would be the Illyria West Dormitory. The young Argentinian gracelessly shoves his way passed the muddled glass door, out of the hot air, bracing air conditioning as it sweeps across his face, calling attention to the sweat pooling at the base of his spine and across his temples. His breathing is short and quick as his eyes scan the room for life, expecting Cristiano to appear out of thin air. But all Leo gets is a depleted, lethargic Toni Kroos, collapsed against the wall at the entrance of the corridor.

Leo goes to the boy who looks up at him faintly from his spot on the floor, smiling weakly, head lolling off to the side a little. In his left hand rests an empty, battered red cup.

“Have you seen Cristiano?” Leo requests quickly, flicking his eyes up to peer down the tan-carpeted, never ending passageway.

“He went with,” a hiccup interrupts his thought process momentarily, “James back to the,” another hiccup slows the poor boy’s task yet again, “room.”

Toni winks before zoning out again. He’s sweating through his dress shirt, missing one of his shoes as well as his belt and tie.

Leo doesn’t even bother going back to the room, he can guess what’s going on in his absence, possibly even on his bed, and instead, he climbs the flight of stairs to room 202, knocking quietly, hanging his head for a moment.

A voice behind the door cusses and shuffling and jostling and thumping followed by more cussing can be heard. The door is finally opened after a few seconds of delay.

“Hey, can I room here tonight?” Leo speaks softly. He brings dark eyes up to meet the other boy’s standing in the doorway. He feels ashamed, used, disorderly, and just flat out tired.

Neymar only nods, as if he knows everything without Leo saying anything, letting him in without another word.

 

 

Just imagine the  _suits_ though.

 

_Oh sweet Jesus._

__

Leo's got that red suit classic thing that he likes

And then there's the clean cut tux that Cristiano always goes with

But then again, go big or go home...

Yet sometimes, less is more...

Eh, ordinary is boring, red suit all day every day.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How was it? Thank you guys so so SO much for reading! <33


	6. Later

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so, I know I haven't updated in a while, but hopefully I'll have this fic finished soon. Originally, I did not plan on it having more than two chapters, so it's taken me awhile to prolong the story a bit. Once again, I apologize for keeping you all waiting, I love each and every one of you, enjoy!!!

Bleary clouded sunlight filters through cracked blinds and Cris rolls over onto his face, stuffing his nose into one of the pillows that hasn’t been strewn across the room because of the night’s activities. He lets out a deep huff of breath, blinking his sight into focus, resting on a clock that burns a dim 11:27, hours past first and second breakfast, almost lunchtime, and already two minutes late for training. His stomach lurches a bit and his head is dizzy, despite the lack of alcoholic beverages he did not consume the night before, squinting about the dim room to gain his bearings. A sleeping James clutches a lone blanket where he rests rather restlessly on the floor in the middle of the room. Cristiano’s six thousand dollar suit blazer still camps out on the floor by the hamper and his pants are nowhere to be found. He cant remember where his tie or belt went either, and forget about his button down, which must’ve grown legs, slipped under the door, and walked out of the very building in the midst of a night dark with confusion in Cristiano’s thoughts. All that remains of Cristiano’s clothing is a pair of socks that somehow managed to cling onto his feet for dear life underneath a topsy-turvy sleep, a pair of boxers with a daring CR7 lining the top lining, and a thin white undershirt that Cris contemplated omitting before the night even began.

The Portuguese kicks James in the ribs, not hard, just enough to rouse the other boy, grumbling a deep, “Get up, we’re late.”

The freshman, temporarily oblivious to his whereabouts, still sporting his full suit and attire from the night before, shoes tied as if he had been prepared to go before he even knew he had to leave, scrambled to his feet, petrified, and for a moment, Cris believes he might actually be able to hear the other boy’s heartbeat through his chest as he freaks out, checking for the time and searching for all his stuff. Thankfully, James didn’t enter the room with much, so he had little to gather, and he was out the door, sprinting down the hall within a matter of moments, muttering something about morning training to himself, out of breath and out of time. Cris manages to hold back an eye roll at the whole scene that only lasts a matter of seconds before pushing himself fully upright and checking himself in his mirror. Dark crescents made their home beneath his eyes in the night, he notices, and a sneer permeates his lips, very unbecoming of such a gorgeous face. He cards his fingers through mussed brown hair, taming it instantly, rolling his tongue across perfectly glistening white teeth. He could have sworn that Leo came back to the room with him last night, lips pressed together, hands roaming, spending long moments in each others arms, skin on skin, moans filling the room. He remembers the eye contact they made, long yet distant, before-before-…. And the night grows gray, for Leo never followed Cristiano back into the room, no, Leo went his own way when he caught a glimpse of James by Cris’ side, reading his own words on the page that Cristiano never wrote, imagining that James was there for one reason and one reason only, not because the poor freshman was locked out of his room and didn’t have anywhere else to sleep. And Cristiano dresses lazily, ignoring the time, annoyed that Leo didn’t set an alarm, and that because of it, he would be late to training, that he is _already_ late for training. He tugs the practice kit on over tired limbs, a few body parts cracking in the process from a rough night’s sleep. On the other side of the room, Cristiano takes notice of the lack of a practice uniform on Leo’s desk chair where the Argentinian always puts it the night before, realizing that Leo must have slipped in earlier that morning to grab his stuff, saw James and Cristiano sound asleep, and left them to their own fate.

He laces up his boots a little quicker now, realizing the consequences of showing up late to morning training the morning of a match. So poorly was this game scheduled, for all his teammates were destined to be hung over or just plain exhausted, if not both, in no shape to take on another school whose players had properly prepared for the date. He breaks into a jog as he makes his way down the hallway through the main lobby and into the cloudy morning. Cristiano is rather angry, in fact, that Leo would even _assume_ that he had brought James back to their room to sleep with him, how low does Leo think that Cris would stoop? The sneer seems to reform on Cris’ lips. He bets that Leo _also_ thought that they did it on Leo’s bed, seeming that Cris is such a repulsive creature as to take advantage as someone as helpless as a freshman still new to the high school world. No, after Cris shut the door, he tossed off his suit in one swift motion and informed the other boy that he’d be sleeping on the floor, not worthy enough to sleep in Leo’s bed. He didn’t say the last part, didn’t want to damage the younger boy’s self-esteem more than he had to.

The pitch comes into view where Cris’ teammates have already warmed up and begun their simple plays. Immediately, dark eyes narrow on a small Argentinian passing with the Brazilian, Neymar, and another junior just as insignificant, who Cris hadn’t bother to learn the name of. He slips behind the bleachers and onto the pitch beside Marcelo and Bale, nonchalantly as though he’d been out on the grass the whole morning instead of asleep in his bed as of eight minutes ago.

“Ronaldo, do you have a pink slip to excuse your tardiness?” Coach Enrique speaks calmly, eyes still glued to his clipboard, casually making notes on paper in his tiny squished scribble writing.

A pink slip is given only to the sick and those who must neglect their obligations to attend to serious personal or familial matters, and is an automatic get out of jail free pass on campus. Cristiano has his own personal pad stocked in his dorm desk drawer that he uses whenever he pleases, whether he forgot to do last night’s homework or just doesn’t feel like going to class that afternoon, scratching down an excuse on the pad, stolen from the secretary front desk, and sending it in with one of his classmates.

Scowling under his breath, Cristiano shakes his head, attempting to come up with an excuse in the back of his mind.

“Then tonight, you’ll be joining James on the bench,” Enrique finishes easily, calmly.

“ _What?”_ Cris speaks sharply, despite the fact that he’s talking to an adult.

In all his years at Illyria Prep, he’s never been scratched, not once. Those passing on the sidelines look up, almost dumbfounded at the coach’s decision.

“You’re scratched. Tardiness is unacceptable, from anyone, even you, and as a leader, I expect you take this as a learning experience and set an example for others to follow, that you will not resist the punishment dealt because of your actions,” Enrique finishes writing on his pad and clicks his pen to enclose his point.

Cristiano bites his lip, ready to burst on the inside. He glances up to see eyes watching his reaction, flicking across the faces to rest on one Lionel Messi’s. Leo averts his gaze almost instantaneously, locking his stare on the ball at his feet instead, and the fire within Cristiano blazes hotter.

 

***

 

Rain slaughters the pitch, making it hard to squint through the obliqueness. Cris crosses his arms across his broad chest from where he sits in the scratch box, unaffected by the downpour. There are barely any spectators in the stands, so Cris tries to convince himself that he doesn’t _really_ mind sitting out, but even that doesn’t do so much as lessen the blow. James sits by Cris’ side, fiddling with the strings at the front of his shorts, unsure whether he should attempt to squint through the rain, or pretend he doesn’t want to be playing in it like Cris does. He keeps his head down, still ashamed of what put him in that seat in the first place.

Cris doesn’t know if he will be prepared if or when Leo scores and the whole team rushes to him, hugging him close in the rain. The whole team except Cristiano and James of course, who watch with disinterest from their seats. He doesn’t know if he can resist the urge to stomp onto the field and punch Neymar in the face if the Brazilian does anything more than hold Leo a little too close. He grits his teeth and forces himself to stay planted where he sits.

This is all Leo’s fault, Cris determines for the tenth time. He shouldn’t have been so sensitive, he shouldn’t have assumed that he was unwelcome in his own room for chrissake, he should have been there in the morning with his alarm set, then, Cris would be out on the pitch right now, making a difference in the presently 0-0 match. He cringes at the thought of his father hearing about the whole “sitting on the bench, healthy scratch” ordeal, sighs at the idea of his father actually picking up the phone and calling up his son to remind him all that they have invested in him, forcing the thought back to the front of his mind that he can’t screw up these opportunities, that he cannot fail. And so, Cristiano glares on through the storm, making some sort of an effort to distinguish the number 10 in white at the far end amongst the rest.

And though the pitch is misty and unclear, he can make out the two figures, a number ten and a number eleven, slumped against each other, patting the other on the back as they make their way to the tunnel at the half. Cristiano doesn’t realize he’s balling his fists until his knuckles begin to hurt and James taps him on the shoulder to shake the older boy from his harsh reverie.

 

Wet boots hit the slick concrete tunnel floor like soldiers marching back from war. Leo is one of the last ones in line, Cristiano notices, standing behind Kun and Toni discussing a passing play. The tall Portuguese moves like a figure among the shadows, pushing the unsaid words of his not-yet-disappointed-father out of his subconscious, appearing behind the Argentinian with a request already on his tongue, so quiet and sticky sweet, only to be heard by Leo, “A word?”

The two move among the darkness of the tunnel out of sight where the ears of their teammates are too distant to eavesdrop. Alone, finally, since what has felt like ages, Cris presses Leo up against the cold wall, licking a thick strip up the shorter boy’s neck. And for a moment, it seems as though Leo might actually go along with Cris’ movements, might lean into the touch and the affection, until he squirms out of the Portuguese’s grasp.

“No,” Leo breathes out, “no,” he repeats, putting Cristiano at a distance, a visible blush revealing itself under the extremely dim lighting of the remote tunnel corridor.

“Why?” Cris demands immediately after Leo’s words hit the air coldly, accustom to the rejection by now.

“Because I’m not yours,” Leo says quickly, quietly yet harshly, glancing down from the direction that they came from, expecting voices and footsteps to emerge, but receiving none. They are alone. Incredibly and completely alone. And Leo knows it too well, has been in this situation with Cristiano what feels like a hundred times before.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Cristiano raises his voice a little, and Leo shushes him immediately, still glancing for those voices and footsteps that will never come.

“I know what you did with James last night, don’t play stupid with me,” Leo retorts and there’s no sympathy in his voice, and when dark, piercing eyes come up to meet Cristiano’s they look almost hurt, damaged, as though they may contain some sort of feeling toward the other boy that is much deeper than lust and the opposite of the hate that he should contain by now. The two stand much closer than Cris thought they had been standing before Leo broke free, and the idea that Leo had come closer erupts hope within Cris’ chest, under his ribs.

“You don’t know _anything_!” Cristiano cuts in curtly, forcefully, sparking another hasty _“SHH”_ from Leo who, tears his eyes from down the dark hallway yet again to glare at Cristiano who stands, arms crossed, unimpressed with their conversation.

“I saw you two together last night, sneaking into our room,” Leo quips softly.

“That’s all you saw,” Cristiano states darkly, accusingly.

“That’s all I needed to see,” Leo finishes starkly and just as accusingly.

“That says nothing. How do I know that you didn’t fool around with Neymar last night then?” Cristiano gives himself a mental pat on the back for being so cunning and clever.

Leo’s ears grow bright red until he’s practically glowing, lighting up the darkness, “I did _not_ sleep with Ney-,” the Argentinian begins.

“How would _I_ know that? You were in his room last night, _weren’t you_?” Cristiano grins.

“Yeah, but-,” Leo starts, embarrassed.

“So, for all I know, you could have crawled into bed with him and-,” Cris is just talking as loud as he possibly can, and Leo clasps his hand over the other boy’s mouth to muffle the noise.

“Shut. _Up. Will you_?” Leo hisses.

And the hallway grows silent when the Argentinian removes his hand and takes a little space. Cristiano studies the shorter boy as he listens once more for movement. His kit is sopping wet, droplets dripping steadily on the concrete floor, hanging loosely off Leo’s frame, almost translucent, and Cris resists the urge to press a hot hand to Leo’s cold clothes against his warm chest to watch the younger boy shiver at the contact and frozen dampness. Grass and mud stains mar a moon-colored uniform, adding character to the dull Illyria uniforms. His jet hair is plastered to his forehead and Cris reaches out a soft hand to brush a few strand away from Leo’s eyebrows. And Leo lets him do this, lets him have that moment for himself without pushing him away. And briefly, Cristiano hates Leo’s inconsistency, that he handed him that experience so easily but denies him all else. Leo watches Cristiano’s movements intently with a relaxed expression.

“This is all your fault,” Cristiano whispers suddenly through the darkness.

“All _my_ fault? How?” Leo shoots back.

“You made me late,” Cris states as if it’s the most obvious conclusion in the world.

“ _I_ made _you_ late? That’s not even possible, I wasn’t even there this morning,” Leo rolls his eyes, no longer paying attention to possible intruders down the hall.

“Exactly, if you had just come back to the room last night, then the alarm would have gone off-,” Cris’ voice rises steadily.

“That’s your fault, you should have set one yourself, don’t be so irresponsible next time, _Cris_ ,” Leo says his name as if it’s poison in his mouth, spitting it out and ridding his taste buds of its sourness.

“Oh, don’t sound so high and mighty, Leo, it doesn’t become you. Why did you not wake us when you had the chance, hmmm?” Cris circulates the argument once again to attack Leo’s decisions over Cristiano’s.

“What are you even-?” Leo appears genuinely confused.

“When you came to grab your uniform, you didn’t wake us. How early was it, Leo, that you couldn’t disturb us?” Cris challenges.

Leo stands in silence, eying the older boy.

“You know I’d never let him sleep in your bed, and it was clear he didn’t sleep in mine, so why were you salty? _Why didn’t you wake us?”_ Cristiano’s voice grows louder with confidence.

And that’s when Leo glances down the hallway once more, for a faint noise captures his attention.

“You knew that we would be late, why didn’t you wake _James_ at least, if you still were annoyed with me? _He_ didn’t deserve to be scratched,” Cristiano’s tone becomes bolder still and Leo’s eyes are flickering from down the hall to the Portuguese’s expression, anxious and torn.

Loud footsteps and voices echo through the hallway, nearer and nearer still.

“Was it because you were jealou-,” Cristiano confronts at last with a voice loud enough to wake the dead, and Leo doesn’t want to be found, can’t handle Cristiano’s accusations anymore, crushing their lips together roughly, passionately, threading his fingers through the short, dry hair at the back of Cris’ head as the older boy growls against Leo’s lips.

The cleated feet stomp against the concrete, calling Leo back to the pitch, but Cristiano is whispering coarse, hot words in his ear. Voice husky and dominating, the Portuguese nibbles at Leo’s jaw, and with hands on Leo’s hips, he shoves the smaller boy against the other wall on the opposite side off the hallway, eyes obscure with lust. In an attempt to occupy his mind and distract his thoughts from Cristiano’s tongue in his mouth, Leo digs short fingernails into the muscles in the taller boy’s back, hoping he knows what he does each time he plays with Leo’s head. Cristiano just grins against the Argentinian’s lips, impatient fingers rushing to Leo’s waistband in the dark.

And Leo draws back, yet again, breathing hard, cheeks hot, _“Stop,”_ he forces out between huffs. Leo’s head pulses, mind racing, wanting this very much, but remembering there are other more important things right now, there’s a match to win, “Stop,” he repeats once more and Cris pauses, fingers recoiling to rest on Leo’s shoulders instead. The taller boy presses their foreheads together, saying nothing; face not disappointed, but not pleased either.

“Not right now,” Leo manages and Cristiano grins a bit.

“But that doesn’t mean never, correct?” Cristiano retorts suavely, bringing his thumb up to caress Leo’s cheek, a glint of hope shining in the dark hallway, confirming Cris’ greatest wish ever since he first laid eyes on Leo Messi for the first time.

Leo eyes the gentle touch warily, “Later,” he says finally, tearing away from Cristiano’s hold, jogging down the hallway to join the footsteps leading onto the rainy pitch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Was it okay?


	7. We Could Be "A Thing"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay for super late final updates!!! I'm so, so so, so, SO sorry for not updating this in forever I sort of lost my Cris/Leo spark for a while and just recently sort of got it back. I hope you guys enjoy and thanks for not giving up on me!!!

Thunder breaks and cracks in the coarse, enraged night sky, giving body to the storm with a fervent white whip curling against the purple darkness. The air is hot and wet, the jersey clinging and molding to Leo’s skin as two pairs of feet hit the hard asphalt as dark as the sky. The figures move undetected in the shadows, unseen to all, as the rain plunges to the earth, masking the sounds of their steps as they dart through the downpour in the direction of the dorms.

A heart beats wildly in Leo’s chest, mind flooded with thoughts unsure of themselves, unsure of himself, and Leo doesn’t even know what he’s _doing_ here, running through the dark with Cristiano to God knows where to do God knows what for God knows how long. But, there’s a fervent spark within Leo that struck when Leo first saw that handsome face and only grew from there with each passionate kiss, each determined touch, and deep down, Leo knows _exactly_ what they’re doing and that he wants to be a part of every second of it.

The smaller boy clasps Cristiano’s hand tighter and the Portuguese flashes him a bright grin more brilliant than the lightning breaking across the sky overhead, lighting up a campus asleep.

Cleats hit wet grass and supple mud, sinking in and splashing through the puddles and divots, Cristiano cursing under his breath, the back of the dorm building within a stone toss. They stealthily round the side of the wet-brick building to a window always left open, always forgotten about. And Leo _knows_ students aren’t permitted to use the window as an entrance, aren’t even allowed this far out of sight of teachers and staff, but as Cristiano helps the smaller boy through the cracked window, following afterward, heaving himself up and out of the downpour, Leo basks in the sensation that shakes him to the core of sneaking around with Cristiano, the danger, the rush, the excitement, pumping blood through his veins faster.

Dim moonlight barely floods through this single, solitary window, the main back hall almost completely dark in itself, polished floors reflecting little light, as Leo and Cristiano remove their cleats for added stealth, for their spiked boots would surely give them away with the constant clatter of hoof-like steps. With soggy footsteps, the two patter their way across the shiny floor, slipping and sliding every now and then, giggling like children, but somewhere in Leo’s chest, the idea emerges that this will be his only year with Cristiano, for the older boy will graduate and most likely move onto a professional career immediately, leaving Leo by himself to spend his final year of high school. And Leo doesn’t want to admit it, but he’s quite literally fallen for Cristiano, because who wouldn’t? So suave and handsome and charming is Cristiano, and at first, it felt like a joke that Cris would ever return such feelings to Leo, who has always felt rather small and insignificant when standing by the godlike side of Cristiano Ronaldo. But, the way Cristiano talks to Leo, the way he _looks_ at Leo, it shows that there is something there that isn’t to be ignored.

The building is silent and eerie almost, the only noises to be heard being those of the insistent rain and the gentle slip-slide squeak of damp socks.

“Woah, watch where you’re standing!” Cris exclaims quietly, pointing at the ground that Leo stands upon.

The younger boy looks down at where his feet are planted on the massive Illyria crest in the middle of the floor. It’s known as sacred, holy ground, to be avoided by all at all costs. Immediately he moves with quick, frantic feet away from the especially polished platform, making his way to Cristiano’s arms where he believes it is safe to stay for a while.

The dark halls seem haunted almost, spooky in a way, as the enchanting moonlight shines upon the Illyria logo in the darkness, only two hearts awake in the night, alone with the other.

“If you step on it, you’ll never graduate. And we don’t want that now, do we?” Cristiano whispers into Leo’s hair, pressing a gentle kiss there.

And Leo’s heart flutters in his chest.

 

***

 

Wind gusts and rain beats against the windows as the two sprint down the dark, carpeted dorm hallway to room 128, cleats in hand, unknown to all others unperturbed by their footsteps and intentions, and as Cris fumbles with the stupid room key in his slippery hands, Leo by his side panting, grinning shyly, eyes filled with something he cant identify at the moment, hand resting tentatively on the older boy’s back, heat seeping through his own jersey made wet by the rain, Cris almost thinks to call his driver, despite his hour of need, and rent out the nicest hotel room in town at the most glamorous hotel with a big king size bed adorned with gold-trim sheets as soft as silk and massive royal curtains and fancy burgundy rugs that would make Leo stare at in awe of their magnificence, maybe even a couple bottles of champagne if they needed it, because all of the sudden, Cris is convinced that Leo deserves it, that he’s worth the extra effort, and that this shouldn’t just be a quick fuck on a twin size dorm bed with dinky cotton curtains and course reusable linens, and he wonders when this whole thing with Leo stopped being just centered around Cristiano’s lust and having Leo only this one time and became an affection and burning, fierce desire rooted so deeply and intensely, an emotion so nigh to love that Cristiano wouldn’t be afraid to call it such. And Leo’s reassuring touch, stills Cristiano’s stuttering, clambering movements, dark eyes filled with so much patience as he gently takes the keys in his own fingers, unlocking the door easily and swiftly and without difficulty.

Leo barely has time to react before Cristiano is pressing Leo up against the door, shutting it in the process, giving them some long awaited privacy. The taller boy presses their lips together, biting teasingly at Leo’s bottom lip, pain mixing with pleasure, sending sparks under his skin, eyes fluttering shut, moaning into the sensation. Leo lets his fingers roam up Cristiano’s back to clutch the damp, slightly gelled hair to hold his head in place, deepening the kiss and receiving a warm, heated hum of approval from the Portuguese. They are so close that their hearts practically beat as one, quick and eager with what’s to come. Cris’ hands take hold of Leo’s hips dexterously shifting the fabric concealing Leo’s skin, rubbing against the muscles nearing Leo’s abdomen, simultaneously slotting their groins together, grinding down, as though he had done this a hundred times, an expert in all fields it seems.

And although Leo can think of little but the heady heat of Cris’ body pressed against him, the sharp wood of the back against the door, pinning him in place, the cool drip of water rolling off his kit to the floor, and slight anxiety that comes from the idea of waking his dorm neighbors with their activities, there is the reminder that Cristiano probably _has_ done this many, many times with many, many different partners, most likely other footballers and no doubt with that Russian underwear model who was mentioned a little while back. And disappointment presses against Leo’s heart like a tumor, because Leo doesn’t want to be just another play thing, he doesn’t want to be swallowed up and forgotten among the long list of Cristiano’s ex-lovers—no—Leo wants to be remembered as the one that is going to be hard to part with after this year, wants to make it hurt to be distant from on holidays and vacations, wants to make Cristiano feel things that he’s never felt before with any of those other people.

Leo drops his head, sucking a bruise to the tanned skin of Cristiano’s collarbone, dotting sloppy kisses against his pulse point, eliciting a breathy hiss from Cristiano, whose hands tighten their grip on Leo’s hips, wandering to grab Leo’s ass through his shorts, pulling the cheeks apart. Leo gasps at the feeling of Cristiano pressing a finger against his hole, cheeks growing hot, aware of the blood rushing south.

He has never exactly… _done_ anything with anyone before, aside from Cristiano. Of course he’s touched himself before, not _in front of_ anybody, that would be far too embarrassing in Leo’s mind, the idea of opening himself up in front of another person, in front of Cristiano, allowing him to watch as he pressed spit-slick fingers inside him, fucking down onto them, searching for that one spot that makes him see stars, the other hand stroking his cock leaking precum on his stomach, begging for release.

Without warning, Cris hoists Leo up, bodies flesh against each other, Leo’s arms linked behind Cristiano’s neck and legs tucked behind his lower back for support. They lock lips for a deep, intense kiss, zealous and fiery, and Leo can feel Cris’ hard cock pressing against his ass through all those pesky layers of clothes. Cris wastes no time pressing Leo into the mattress. Straddling Leo’s hips, rutting against him shamelessly, growling at the sensation, voice husky, hands forming dips in the bed on either side of Leo’s head, head tipped back in temporary ecstasy, and the friction is enough to get Leo off, his breathing staggered and heavy, close to whimpering at the need to touch his aching cock through his shorts. And how embarrassing would his first time be if it ended with him coming in his shorts before he’d even be touched. Thank God the darkness surrounds them, because Cristiano is hot in the brilliant light of day, but in the poorly lit dorm room, it’s difficult to make out the chiseled frame of Cris’ face. Leo forces himself to focus on anything but Cris’ noises, his ragged breathing, the _swish swish_ of their irritating, sopping uniforms, reaching out a hand to explore beneath the jersey, fingers tracing the heat of the older boy’s perfect abs. And with that contact, Cristiano pauses his movements, and sits back ever so slightly, maybe an inch or two, barely noticeable even, but feeling like an ocean between them, and Leo props himself up on his elbows, staring up at Cristiano with a worried expression, with disturbed eyes.

“I-I’m sorry, I-I thought-I didn’t mean to-I-I mean I thought it would be okay-we can s-stop I-I-,” Leo’s eyes are flicking every at once, trying to decipher Cristiano’s expression.

And Leo feels like he fucked up big time, like he will never recover Cristiano’s trust with such a little mistake.

But, with eyes filled with so much awe and gentleness Cristiano speaks barely louder than a whisper, “Fuck, I want you,” before closing the space between them, forcing Leo down to the mattress again with force enough to break the bed as it creaks under their combined weight.

When Leo breaks the kiss for air, Cris looks at Leo with wild eyes, hair messy, cheeks pinks, lips kiss swollen, gorgeous. The older boy rakes his eyes across Leo, taking in the moment, a grin tugging at his lips, fingers going to his own shirt to pull at the bottom hem, removing his jersey slowly, no doubt to give Leo the full effect, abs rippling with every movement, biceps bulging, the V at his abdomen elongating as Cristiano tosses the wet material to the side. And Leo blushes a little when he gets caught staring, but he cannot think that he will be able to mimic such a graceful and magnificent performance as that. But, Cristiano doesn’t seem to care, for he’s watching Leo like he’s the last other human on earth. His breath catches in his lungs and he averts his eyes to avoid Cris’ hot gaze, his own fingers hesitating at the bottom of his hem, unsure and embarrassed. What if Cris doesn’t like what he sees? What if he’s disappointed? Already Leo hasn’t had Cris, but he wants this to happen again, and with a fear such as the fact that Cris wont be attracted to the small Argentinian, he doesn’t think it will.

“It’s okay,” Cris coos, hand coming up to cup Leo’s face, brushing across the soft skin there with his thumb, encouraging Leo to look at him with that sticky sweet golden honey voice. And Leo betrays his better judgment and flicks dark eyes up to meet Cristiano’s warm gaze, so reassuring, so familiar, and Leo wants to curl up in his arms and stay there forever, safe from harm this way.

In one quick motion, without thinking, for Leo doesn’t think he has any blood left in his brain, he whips his shirt off, so fast that he doesn’t have to mull the decision over, so fast that he almost smacks Cristiano in the face as he chucks the shirt to the side. But, Cristiano doesn’t seem to care, mouth moving to tease Leo’s nipple, a hand going to massage the younger boy’s erection through his pants, drinking every moan and whimper drawing from him. Leo is panting, eager, flat on his back against the mattress, keening up into Cristiano’s touch, needing more of everything, more of Cristiano, and the older boy recoils back in laughter when Leo practically rolls the two of them off the bed.

Leo sits up now, not wanting to wait any longer. He could kiss and touch Cristiano for hours, but now, right fucking now, he wants this, wants the older boy. His hand moves to Cris’ bare stomach, pushing the older boy back so his head rests on the pillow, quick fingers undoing the tie at his shorts effortlessly, dragging them down passed his thighs, pulling his socks off with them and leaving them as a depleted pile on the floor. He removes his own shorts, letting them drop to the floor in a mangled, wet mess.

Leo stares at Cris through the darkness. He can see why Cristiano became an underwear model. Clad in only CR7 boxers, Cristiano looks like someone out of a magazine. Leo would definitely buy anything if Cristiano Ronaldo wore it, he concludes. Tanned skin slick with sweat shimmered in the dimly moonlit room. Quiet rain pattered delicately against the window, and the trees rustled and scratched against the windows every now and then with the gusts of wind. Cristiano’s eyes were stuck on Leo, watching his every move, his expression one of wonder.

Cristiano offers to open Leo up, and Leo can only imagine what those strong fingers would feel like inside him, curling and pressing up against that spot that makes him see white behind his eyelids, but Leo wants to impress Cristiano, wants to let him watch this time. Cristiano is lying back on the bed, observing silently as Leo opens himself up, slowly, gingerly at first, locking eye contact with the older boy, fucking himself on one, two, three fingers. He’s close to coming at this point, fingers brushing against his prostate every other time he grinds down on them, but Cris, so gentle and poised and determined stills his movements and pushes the smaller boy down against the mattress. Leo stares up at Cristiano, looming above him like a monument, stares up at him like he put the stars and the moon and the planets in the sky, feeling caged in by Cristiano’s pure _size_ and power in his body. The Portuguese rolls the condom on his cock, slicking it up with more lube than necessary, some getting on the sheets, but his eyes are only for Leo.

“This okay?” he asks, breathily, dick at Leo’s entrance.

Leo nods. If he doesn’t have Cris’ cock inside him soon, he might implode.

Cris sinks into Leo’s heat slowly, watching as the younger boys squirms at the unusual feeling, making quiet noises under his breath that Cristiano doesn’t have enough blood flow to his brain to decipher right now, because holy fuck Leo is beneath him, splayed out so nicely for him, cream-colored skin beautiful through the darkness, a delicate flush blossoming across his chest.

Cristiano thrusts minimally at first, short and choppy, in and out at a predictable pace. Leo clutches the bedspread, legs splayed out on either side of Cris’ hips, head lolled to one side, mouth hanging open and heinously wet and fucking _hot._ Cris leans forward, still thrusting with controlled movements, to connect their lips, loudly, aggressively, passionately, and in doing so, he changes the angle, hitting the spot just right, and Leo lets out a loud, beautiful moan, arching up against the bed.

 _“Again,”_ Leo pleads, eyes lidded, expression drunk with lust and arousal, hands moving to grab needily at Cris’ hips. Cris’ body is two beats behind his thoughts, hands grasping Leo’s wrists and pinning them above his head, thrusting up into Leo with longer strokes now, pace quicker, more definite and powerful, and oh, how Leo _whines_ and _whimpers_ with pleasure, panting out through his mouth helplessly, wanting so much, but unable to vocalize everything at once, speaking gibberish, “So _good—Ah—_ I want—yes, there, _yes_ , faster, please—Cris I need—ah— _more_.”

Leo’s cock bounces against his stomach in rhythm to Cris’ thrusts, red and leaking. The whole scene is too much to handle. It’s the hottest thing Cris has ever seen. Every inch of Leo’s skin is like fire to touch, smooth and inviting, and Cristiano wants to leave marks across it like a canvas so Leo can remember the way he felt inside him for days to come.

Leo laces his arms behind Cris’ neck, pulling their bodies close, more upright now, so Cris thrusts upwards, slowly, more spaced out, but their faces are so nigh, inches apart, that Cris is staring into those dark, all-encompassing eyes with unfathomable wonder like they hold galaxies.

“I’m gonna come,” Leo breathes out and the words hit Cris’ skin coolly like raindrops, so delicate but containing a hidden force beneath the surface.

Snaking a hand between them and continuing to pound up into the smaller boy, Cris wraps his hand around Leo’s cock, stroking firmly and expertly three times before Leo is shuddering in Cris’ arms and coming with a loud moan, Cris’ name pouring from his lips like a prayer and a curse. And Cristiano has never been more shaken by lust and desire than watching Leo’s orgasm crash down over him, thrusting quickly and erratically, pushing himself over the edge.

Outside, rain pelts against the glass of the window sporadically in the wind in waves. Leo’s breathing fills Cris’ thoughts, even louder than his own blood pounding in his ears, his chest rising and falling in the Portuguese’s peripheral vision. Leo cleans himself off with the sheet, before standing as if to go to the other bed. There’s something almost melancholy in Leo’s body language. Coming down, but still fully aware, Cris reaches out, soft touch against Leo’s forearm.

“Stay,” Cris whispers, and there’s so much contentment in Leo’s gaze as he slips under the covers into Cris’ arms, feeling so right and perfect and good pressed up against Cristiano through the dark of their room in a pathetic twin size bed, sticky with sweat and sex and weighed down with fatigue and happiness.

“That was good,” Cristiano says, breaking the silence and any worries Leo might be storing in his head at the moment, eyes feeling suddenly heavy.

“Really good,” Leo manages, smiling a little. He yawns into the end of his words. Cristiano brushes his thumb against Leo’s cheek affectionately.

There’s a thought that prods its way forward from the back of Cristiano’s mind, something that may have been there from the beginning, from the first time that he saw Leo, that only grew as he got to know Leo. It’s the kind of thought that makes Cris’ stomach flutter and want to think about it more because maybe then it will come true, at least inside his head for a little while. And it’s hard to word it and weird to say, but Cris says it anyway because maybe Leo will say yes.

“We could be ‘a thing’, y’know?” Cristiano says, sitting up to look at the younger boy. In the proposition is the promise of something real and decent, something that could be great, even if it’s only for one year and Cristiano might be gone from Leo’s life forever after that.

And Leo only nods, drowsy and muddled. Whether it is because of Cristiano’s thick accent or the idea that this will happen again, that Cristiano doesn’t want anyone else, Leo likes the way it sounds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! How was it? I hope you all liked it! I'm thinking about MAYBE starting another Cris/Leo fic soon but I have no idea... Hope this fic was okay though!


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